Chains
by Holly Lukeman
Summary: Sam is dying and Dean can't stop it. An enemy is counting on just that.
1. Chapter 1

This came to me at 2 AM, and I figured I'd post it before I left for my spring break. I haven't written a story this long before, so let me know what you think either way.

This is after "Criss Angel is a Douche Bag" and makes a reference to "Metamorphosis."

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**Chains**

Dean jerked awake, his muscles inexplicably bunched into knots under his sweating skin as he surfaced from the thick pond of sleep. Air tunneled down his throat as his chest resumed rising and falling, the knowledge that he had stopped breathing vaguely registering in the back of his mind. Stupid sleep apnea.

Groaning quietly, Dean rolled to a sitting position, letting one leg drop off the bed as he ground his knuckles into his forehead. The motel room was dark and not silent at all, the loud clanking and whirring of the heater in the corner of the room making more noise than some bar fights Dean had seen…and been in.

Unease traced his spine with soft fingers, drawing a shiver from the eldest Winchester. He ran a tired hand through his short hair, feeling the slight dampness of the strands. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, the blurry numbers winked a couple fives and a two at him. Next to it sat a green and pink ceramic seahorse. The thing's glass eyes bugged crazily at him, its snout sneering with gold-lined teeth. Ugly ass piece of crap. If the thing was alive, Dean would be tempted to put a bullet through its head. Hell, might do it anyway.

With a grunt, Dean shifted and stood, waiting a moment until he could see through the sleep smearing his vision. Shuffling forward a couple steps, he looked blearily at his brother's bed. It was empty. Dean's heart rate spiked and his body began to feed him extra adrenaline.

Trying force himself to be calm, Dean fought panic as he turned around to search for his brother. Eyes sweeping the room, he quickly concluded there was no Sam brooding in a corner. Not that the kid brooded much these days – he was cool as steel and had that impenetrable Winchers wall blocking any display of emotions. Thank you screwed up childhood.

The bathroom was dark, its door open halfway, but Dean headed for it without hesitation. Grabbing the tarnished metal handle, he pulled the door wide. Dean's eyes fell on a large, shadowy lump huddled by the toilet. Reaching blindly, Dean fumbled for a moment until he reached a switch. A vacuum-suck of a fan started overhead. Nope, wrong one. He slapped at the other switch. Brightness seared his eyes as they struggled to adjust. They ached to close just for a second, but Dean refused to look away from his brother.

Sam was asleep with his head resting uncomfortably on the bathtub and one leg tucked between the toilet and sink. Had he come in to take a leak and just flopped over? Unlikely. They were both tired from their recent hunt, but Dean doubted Sam was _that_ tired, despite the miles they'd had to trek in order to catch that orange thing.

Dean still had no clue what it was, really. But it had infected its victims with a poisoned slice of its claw to immobilize them before sucking their brains out through their noses, so yeah, it had to be taken care of. The bad part had been the victims they'd lost to the poison alone; there was no cure even if their brains stayed in their heads. Turned out it had been the pet of some whack job sorcerer with a fetish for rare human parts, thus the sucking of brains. The orange creature had been playing a twisted version of fetch-the-cranium. Now the thing was dead and the sorcerer had had all his magic crap burned and had been turned in to the police. In Dean's book that meant kickback time and relaxation. Just not on the freaking bathroom floor.

Crouching next to the sleeping giant, Dean swatted the slumped shoulder with the back of his hand. "Hey, Sam, you with me?"

Sam stirred and opened his eyes, blinking rapidly in the light of the bathroom. "D'n?" He cleared his throat. "Dean? What…?" He stopped and gave a sharp groan, curling forward. "Crap, man."

"You okay?" Dean asked sharply, quickly assessing what he could see of his brother, searching for an infected wound, sign of blunt trauma, anything. He found nothing. "Sam, are you okay?" he repeated when he hadn't received an answer. He formed his words clearly, hoping to get through Sam's sleep-addled brain.

"D'pends," Sam mumbled, screwing his eyes closed against the light, "Better than when Jake sliced me, worse than bleedin' from my eyes."

Cold trickled down into Dean's belly at Sam's words, but he quickly tried to shake it off. Sam wasn't all there, so Dean wouldn't hold it against him, but… Damn. Even two years after the fact, Dean couldn't think about Cold Oak without being plunged into that haze of loss. Time didn't seem to heal _all_ wounds, he thought grimly.

"Where?" Dean asked, returning his focus to the now.

"Chest, mostly. Back and shoulders…uh, and head." Sam was slowly gaining volume as he struggled awake, eyes still slits against the light.

Dean slid a hand under Sam's chin and gently tipped his head up. Sam's eyes were a bit glassy, his skin was damp and clammy, and he seemed to be having trouble swallowing if the odd bobbing of his throat was anything to go by. Something was going on inside that freakishly long body other than the usual morbid thoughts Dean knew Sam was frequently fighting.

Especially so soon after the whole mess with Jay and his magician buddies, Dean wanted to keep an eye on his little brother. He hadn't seen Sam so riled and upset since… well, probably since Jack Montgomery. Despite Sam's pre-Hell resolution to be more "like Dean," the kid was still weighted down by his heavy conscience, particularly after a hunt in which they lost a life. Like a while back when Sam had tried to let Jack live, tried to find some hope for himself in Jack. There had been none.

Dean had seen the pain on Sam's face after his perceived failure; it was an expression he had always hated to see. It meant there was another dark blade of emotion shredding his brother from the inside. Sam hadn't slept much after the thing with Jack. And now, after leaving Magic Town and all the freaks in it, that behavior was coming back, and over the last two days Dean hadn't seen him eat a thing. Yet more cause for worry. Sometimes he thought he'd go crazy from the fear he felt for his brother, the fear that had intensified a hundred fold since Dean had discovered Sam's extracurriculars. Which, thank God, he'd stopped.

"Pr'bly just picked up a virus, Dean," Sam said, swatting at Dean's hand, "Go back to sleep."

Dean grunted noncommittally, continuing his examination. "Were you planning on waking me up anytime? Y'know, just to let me know you were gonna spend the night all cozy with the bathroom appliances." He tried to keep the edge out of his voice, he really did, but he didn't completely succeed. Unfortunately, Sam now seemed awake enough to catch it.

Giving a short sigh, Sam winced and pushed himself off the ground to stand on stiff legs. "I'm fine, man. Just the flu or something." Before Dean could get out a word, Sam was pushing past him and trudging back toward his bed. He had one arm wrapped loosely around his chest, the other swinging freely to help with balance.

Frowning, Dean followed. He hadn't been back much longer than he'd been gone, but he was pretty sure that didn't mean he'd forfeited his big brother rights as Sam seemed to think he had. Since he'd returned, Dean had watched injured Sam dig a four inch long spike out of his arm, stitch himself up without aid, and still manage to help patch Dean up afterward. His brother had, in most cases, calmly refused Dean's assistance, something which Dean had never before needed to offer – he'd always just taken care of Sammy without giving it a thought. Now he wasn't sure if he should ask or what.

Hovering somewhat uncertainly behind Sam, Dean was in a convenient position to catch him as the taller man let out a sharp sound of pain and folded like a cheap, shaggy lawn chair. Dean's arms darted out and gripped Sam's chest and shirt, trying to steady him. Alarm rippled through him. "What's wrong? Sam?"

Sam didn't answer, preoccupied with taking quick gasps of air, his eyes screwed shut, one hand pressed over the side of his head.

Dean scowled and heaved his brother forward one more step before lowering him until Sam sat unsteadily on the edge of the bed. He slid in front of Sam, pushing away the hand and shoving the floppy bangs out of his face. "Hey, look at me. Sammy!"

Sam grew very still, his body rigid under Dean's hands. "Dean, I think…" He swallowed hard before opening his eyes. He took a breath. "I'm okay. Just… lay back down." His words slurred a bit.

Dean didn't answer, frowning again as if he just caught something. His fingers push past Sam's arm and press over the left side of Sam's chest. The heartbeat beneath them was fluttery and strangely strong.

"Dean? Come on, man, let me sleep," Sam said, his voice shaking slightly. Dean didn't budge.

"Did it cut you?"

Brows knitting together, Sam stared down at his brother. "What? No. Dean—"

"Sam." Fist tightening in the cloth of Sam's shirt, Dean gripped him tightly.

"Let go," Sam protested, frowning.

"This is important. Did it cut you?" His hands move up and grab the top of Sam's t-shirt to steady his swaying brother.

"No, Dean. It's nothing."

"Your symptoms aren't telling me 'nothing,' Sam," Dean said, his voice fringed with panic. In fact, the symptoms were screaming bloody, intentional murder. There was no time for anyone to slip Sam anything in a drink or food, not since they'd come back from the hunt. And that's exactly what the symptoms pointed to: poison. The only other option was that Sam had been cut by that orange monstrosity.

Sam's eyes widened, revealing a sliver of fear. "Dean, it never touched me."

_So what the hell is going on?_ Before Dean could respond, Sam doubled up and cried out in pain, clutching at his chest. He gave a bone-rattling cough, and Dean watched in horror as blood dripped from Sam's mouth. Sam slid from the bed to his knees on the carpet, his back arching as he choked.

"Sam!" Dean's hands were on him, searching frantically for an injury that might have been missed.

"Didn't…not" Sam wheezed incoherently, clutching his chest. "Dean…feels like…" He began to pitch forward.

Snagging his jacket, Dean pulled Sam to him and put a hand on his forehead to keep Sam's head steady. Swearing harshly, Dean kept his grip tight. "Sam, hey! Come on man, talk to me."

"Feels like…hex bag," Sam bit out, grinding his teeth. Dean felt another wave of pain roll through Sam's body as his muscles locked. Purple veins stood stark against Sam's paling skin.

Cursing, Dean leaned Sam back against the bed and leaped to his feet. In five minutes he'd ripped open almost everything in the motel room, finding nothing but their belongings and a disturbing amount of previous tenants' used condoms."It's not here!" Dean shouted back to Sam, tearing through the extra blankets in the closet.

Behind him, Sam let out another cry of pain. Urgency burned through Dean and he pulled the cloth out faster. Finding nothing, he whipped around lunged at table holding the tiny TV. He pushed the set off, ignoring its crash to the ground. The table followed, flying halfway across the room. Dean froze. On the wall, painted in red, was a symbol he'd never seen before. It leered menacingly at him, small rivulets of goo running in dried drops from the picture. Dean bent closer, his stomach clenching painfully; the symbol had been painted in blood. Someone had been in their room.

"Sam!" he called out. He whirled and watched as Sam raised his head, blood coating his shirt, hands, and face, dripping in dark globs onto his jeans. Dean felt his heart stutter and start again. Sam didn't look like he should still be breathing.

Sam's eyes widened with shock, locked on the symbol before he grimaced in pain. "Dean," he began, struggling to stand.

"Hey, whoa." Dean darted back to his brother, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Get out."

Dean gaped. "What?"

A hand was firmly planted against Dean's chest, shoving him away. "Leave, Dean," Sam ground out. His red-stained teeth clenched as his chest pounded in agony.

"Not leaving, Sam. What the hell…?"

"GO!"

The barked order was enough to still Dean's frantic movements to grab his brother.

"It's a curse, Dean. It's…agh!" Sam broke off as his body bucked with pain. Breathing heavily, he turned bloodshot eyes back to a panicked Dean. "Curse. It's… Unus tunc ceterus, Dean."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean asked frantically, angrily. His hands grasped uselessly at his little brother as tremors punched at his body.

Sam gasped and gripped Dean's arm in a vise, saying nothing.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed.

"It'll kill me…'n then you. Unus tunc ceterus is 'one then the other.' Have to…get out before it…" Sam ended in a back-breaking cough that delivered another mouthful of blood onto the faded gray carpet.

"How do you break it?" Dean shook Sam slightly. His heart was pounding so hard it was sure to quit any second. _Damn it, Sam_.

"Can't. Leave, Dean."

With a frustrated growl, Dean stuffed a hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He punched in the numbers through a fog of panic. As the phone rang eternally, he cursed it.

_"Hello?"_

"Bobby! 'One then the other' curse. How do you break it?" Dean tightened his hold on Sam. Fear raked through his body as Sam went slack and the heart that had just been pounding against Dean began to flicker and die.

Bobby didn't hesitate. _"Quickest way is heather. Stuff it down his throat. He'll be sick, but he'll live. Won't stop it, but it'll hold it off."_

Dean didn't pause to think about how Bobby had known it was Sam in trouble. Who else could it have been?

"How much?" Dean demanded.

_"A teaspoon or whatever you've got."_

Dean dropped the phone and let go of Sam, feeling terror thrill through him as his brother slid limply to the ground, his body trembling, blood leaking from his mouth and nose. _Cold Oak_ flooded his mind as he charged outside to the Impala. Ripping the trunk open, Dean tore through the contents until he found the small packet of heather. Leaving the trunk, Dean flew back to Sam, who was now struggling to rise.

"D'n…run," Sam murmured tightly. One hand was pressed to his chest, the other grasping weakly at the bed cover in an effort to keep his balance. There was a lot of blood. _God, please not too much._

"Not a chance, Sammy," Dean answered unthinkingly as he reached for Sam's jaw. He tipped Sam's head back and pulled his mouth open, pushing the heather past his lips. Sam choked and coughed as he writhed to get free, but Dean's hold was firm. When all the heather was gone and safely down Sam's esophagus, he hauled Sam up against him, pinning his brother close, and he waited.

For thirty seconds Sam seemed to get steadily worse. His body convulsed and he hacked up more blood, but the heather stayed down. Dean held him tighter, closer. A minute through and Sam seemed to be calming, his limbs stilling, and the blood slowing, stopping. After two minutes, Sam lay still in Dean's arms. The heart that Dean had known all his life began to regulate itself until it was a steadier, stronger beat that traveled through Sam's back and into his own chest. Only the intermittent flutter let him know things were not normal. For a moment Dean held still, his baby brother clutched in his arms, and let himself believe that everything would be okay; for a moment, he let himself think that no one could take Sam from him. It had been too close. He released a shuddering breath as Sam began to open his still-red eyes.

"Dean?" he croaked.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here." _I'll always be right here_.

Sam's eyes traveled up and flickered across Dean's face. "…We dead?"

"Nah, just a little banged up, man. How you feeling?" His voice cracked a bit.

"Like s'm jerk jammed poisonous plants down 'm throat."

Unable to staunch the swell of hysteria, Dean let out a short bark of insane laughter. Biting down hard, he struggled to regain control of himself. "Yeah…yeah, that'll do it," he said softly. The heater clanked loudly in the background once again. Dimly, Dean wondered if it had stopped before, or if he just hadn't heard it.

Dean jumped as Bobby's weak, electronic voice snapped worriedly through the relative silence. Reaching out with one hand and holding his brother with the other, Dean retrieved his phone and cradled it against his ear. "Yeah, Bobby?"

_"How's your brother?"_ he asked without preamble.

Did Bobby really think Dean would have bothered to pick up the phone if he'd lost Sam? "He's breathing, but…" Dean lowered his voice somewhat as Sam's eyes began to slide shut. "Bobby, what the hell is going on?"

_"Someone wants you two dead, is what. And they sure as hell ain't messin' around," _Bobby growled.

"But Sam's okay now?" Dean asked, fighting the fear that welled as he looked down at his brother. Sam's breathing was shallow and his body was limp. He looked all of twelve years old as he lay against Dean's chest, his cheek against Dean's collarbone.

_"Not by a long shot. Where are you two?"_

Dean relayed their location, not encouraged as Bobby began swearing vehemently.

_"Can't reach you in time. Damnit all to hell."_

"In time for what?" Dean demanded quietly, clutching Sam closer to his body.

_"This thing's got a short fuse."_

Terror struck Dean hard as he realized what Bobby was saying. Sam might not make it. "Bobby, what do I do?"

There was silence on the other end for what felt like an eternity. Dean nearly lost his mind waiting for a reply, but he couldn't make himself rush the answer he dreaded was coming.

_"There's nothing I know to do for that curse, not if it's done proper. Just…let me call you back. And keep giving him heather. A pinch every two hours or so. It'll make him sick, but it might slow it down enough."_

"What the hell does this curse do, Bobby?"

_"It was created by a witch several centuries back. Story goes that she found out her lover was cheating on her with someone else, so she made a curse that would kill him and whoever he loved most, thinkin' it would be his mistress. Turned out he was just screwing around and still loved the witch. Killed them both."_

Dean frowned. That was what Sam had been saying. "So, you think…?"

Bobby hesitated. _"If Sam doesn't make it, it's after you next, boy."_

"He's making it, Bobby. What do we do to stop this?" Grim determination took hold, refusing to be shaken. Sam wasn't dying on him.

_"I'll hafta call you back. Answer your damn phone when I do."_

Bobby's gruff, worried voice cut off with a soft click. The line went dead.

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Note: I know zilch about Latin, so please forgive the name of the curse. I'm open to suggestions. I also know nothing about heather. At all. But I do know I like the Winchesters. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, here's the second part to my venting project. And by that I mean my last resort to stay sane without any Supernatural for who knows how long. It's getting worse... I don't suppose today is March 12th? No, I guess not.

This whole story was written out of boredom, so beware. Sam gets sicker and Dean gets knocked around some later.

This chapter starts up _exactly _where the other left off. Please let me know what you think - likes or dislikes are both welcome.

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**Before...**

_Bobby hesitated. "If Sam doesn't make it, it's after you next, boy."_

_"He's making it, Bobby. What do we do to stop this?" Grim determination took hold, refusing to be shaken. Sam wasn't dying on him._

_"I'll hafta call you back. Answer your damn phone when I do."_

_Bobby's gruff, worried voice cut off with a soft click. The line went dead._

**Now...**

Sam stirred in Dean's arms, drawing his attention. "D'n?"

"Yeah, Sammy." He swallowed hard.

Giving a shuddering cough that produced more blood, Sam locked eyes with his brother. Wiping the blood from his mouth, Sam took a breath and tried to speak clearly. "Gotta go, Dean. Get…away from me."

Ice blocked around Dean's heart at his brother's pleading words asking him to leave Sam for dead. Cold trickled into his veins as he struggled to get a hold of himself. He had to do something, anything. He'd be damned if he just sat and let his brother die in his arms. Again.

"Fifty miles…should do it. Just get in the car and go." Sam stuttered a gasp as his chest flared in pain, trying to breathe through it with restricted lungs.

"Shut up, Sam." Anger and fear shook his voice until it rattled.

"No. Dean, listen to me," Sam ordered, pushing out of Dean's arms to lean limply against the motel bed. His hands slipped against the cover, slick with his own blood. He ignored it all. "You're not dying today, Dean. You need to—"

"What? Get out of Dodge and leave you to rot in my place? Not gonna happen, Sam."

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Sam rode out another ripple of knives against the inside of his body. God, if felt like he was being torn apart through his organs. "The curse… it has a specific distance where it works. If you leave now, you'll be far enough away that it can't reach you. You…can look for a cure. Just do it away from here."

"And if we find one I just, what, mail it to you?" Dean snapped.

Sam managed to quirk his lips. "Nah, man. FedEx is faster."

Once again, Dean couldn't find a sliver of levity. Not when Sam was asking him to give up the only person who actually meant anything. "Where do we start looking?" he asked stubbornly.

"Dean…"

Ignoring Sam's attempt at a sharp tone, Dean rose and thrust his arms around Sam's upper chest, heaving his bulky little brother up and onto the bed once more. A stray thought clipped the corner of Dean's mind as it passed: incredulity at the amount of muscle Sam had managed to put on since his death. The guy was a beast.

But even straining to lift Gargantuan onto the mattress, Dean felt his heart stutter the same way it had since he'd first seen Sam as a baby with an astonishing amount of hair. If possible, he loved the kid more with every tick of every second that went by.

"No. Dean, no," Sam ground out, pushing Dean away as he hit the bed.

"Sam—" Dean backed up a step, barely contained frustration simmering under his ribs. Anger was better than fear; he knew what to do with anger. "I'm not leaving, so let's cut the crap and try to save your sorry ass."

"I'll be—"

"Fine?" His voice was bitter. "Yeah, that's what your grave marker's gonna read. 'Back off, I'm fine.'"

With a defeated look, Sam sunk back onto the bed and struggled to pull his legs up. Dean bent and grabbed his ankles, lifting the rest of Sam onto the mattress. "Just…work with me. Please." Dean hesitated before adding the last word, not sure if it carried the weight that it once had. Before, a please from either one of them meant business; it was a last attempt to convince the other.

Sam sat still, his eyes trained on some image Dean couldn't see. Finally, he spoke through barely parted lips. "Okay."

Dean breathed a silent breath of relief. Sorrow pricked at him; he shouldn't have had to fight his brother to save Sam's life. Since he'd come back, he hadn't had to. Dean's brow furrowed as he walked over to the table, looking for bottled water.

Come to think of it, Sam hadn't been in serious peril since Dean's resurrection. Dean had been on the chopping block – more than once, actually. But Sam… he still took to trouble like a duck to water, but the difference was the way he handled it. He took the hits and kept going, barely pausing to self-assess.

Returning to Sam's bedside, Dean saw the steadier rise and fall of his chest that indicated sleep. He wasn't sure if that was safe, but he couldn't bring himself to wake him. He looked…like Sammy when he slept. Awake, the only face Dean saw was the new, more skilled, more hardened hunter Sam. A pang of loneliness beat through his chest as he watched the younger man sleep. He'd missed his little brother.

Dean shook his head. His brother had grown – in more ways than one – since he'd been gone. He knew how to deal with Sammy, but this Sam was someone new. He was a hunter in almost every way; but sometimes just when Dean would begin to fear he'd lost his brother while he hadn't been looking, he would see Sam bow under the weight of empathy or sorrow for someone. Even when no one else believed there was hope for that someone. Just…sometimes it was hard to reconcile this man with his Sammy.

Setting the water on the nightstand, Dean sat on the floor, close to Sam's side so he could make sure he kept breathing. And for the next half hour, he just watched him sleep.

x.x.x.x.x

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Fine. Right." Dean flipped his phone closed, his knuckles bleached white from their iron grip on the plastic. He resisted the urge to throw the damn thing against the wall, imagining the satisfaction of seeing it obliterated.

Dean's eyes stared unseeingly at the computer in front of him, momentarily blinded by fear. He'd tried calling everyone he knew, every contact he could ever remember having. No one knew anything concrete on how to break the curse, and very few of them had even heard of it. He'd caught the condolence in some voices and the 'it-was-bound-to-happen-sometime' neutrality in others; he hated all of it.

Sam lay back against the two pillows propped behind his back, casually flipping through an old manuscript. Dean couldn't help but take in the ever-paling skin that had become clammy within the last hour. A steel fist squeezed his heart at the realization of what he was seeing; Sam was dying in front of him, and he wasn't stopping it.

"How much heather do we have?"

Dean flinched in surprise hearing his brother's scratchy voice. It was…calm. Stoic, even. If he'd had enough energy, it might make him angry or even a little proud, depending. As his eyes traced his brother's form, he saw no evidence that Sam was fighting for his life, just that he was going along for the ride. But yeah, they had enough heather to keep him ill enough to live.

He had taken inventory right after he was sure Sam wasn't going to pass away in his arms; he had gone back out to close and lock the trunk, returning with every bit of heather they owned.

Biting back sharp words that strained to nail Sam's freaking zen attitude, Dean replied, "Enough. Probably last us another day." What he didn't say was exactly what Sam didn't say: after that, they would have no need of it either way.

Sam nodded and opened his mouth to reply, but his words were drowned in a fit of bone-jarring coughs. Dean rose from his seat and hurried to his brother, who was pulling his hands away from his mouth, both sticky and red. Before Dean could so much blink, Sam had a towel in his hands and was cleaning himself off, his expression neutral. His hand shook, looking pale enough to belong to a cadaver.

"Hear from Bobby yet?" Sam asked, raising his eyes to Dean. Bobby had offered to fly out, but they all knew he had infinite more resources at his house than he would have at their crappy motel. And Dean wanted the curse broken.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah… he said he had a few leads." Dean didn't know how to talk about this, not with Sam acting like it was freaking nothing.

"Look, Dean… if this doesn't work, you need to be gone by tonight. I can hold it off until—"

"Shut up, Sam."

"—you get far enough away. But you've got to hurry, man."

He stood slowly, turning away from his brother, the desire to break and kill something raging through his system. Specifically, he wanted to rip to shreds the son of a bitch who had done this to his brother. To them. A loud strain of rock interrupted the moment, and Dean lurched across the room to grab his phone.

"Tell you've got something, Bobby."

_"Yes and no."_

"_What_, Bobby." Dean's patience was dead and buried, soon to be joined by civility.

_"The curse isn't a popular one. It takes a while to kill the victim, and most evil bastards want instant death. It's pretty easy to trace who's got copies of it; not exactly a text you find lyin' around. I got a few names here to run by you. This whole thing'll be a lot easier if you know the guy trying to kill you."_

Though doubting that any Winchester could be that lucky, Dean listened silently as a few unfamiliar names rolled by. Then one hit and stuck. "Wait, wait. That last one. Jeremy Cobbler."

_"Yeah?"_

"He, uh," Dean started, glancing back at Sam, "He's the brother of the sorcerer guy. The one on our last hunt." They had talked to him about his brother, Harold, and Jeremy had seemed a bit strange, but not the kind to own any old books on black magic.

Bobby swore over the line. _"Damn it, Dean. Cobbler's the resident dimwit in the witching community – he wouldn't know how to undo this crap and neither would his moron of brother. The bitch of it is the spell is strong even if the idiot performing it half-asses it. It's meant to cause pain any way it can. I was countin' on the spell-worker knowing another way out, but—"_

"Another way?" Dean latched onto Bobby's last words, "What?" _Anything_.

There was hesitation on the other line. _"It don't matter much, but there might be a way to reverse it. Found it in an old tome, but… It's a living sacrifice, Dean. A life for a life. Well, a life for two lives. The ancients probably thought that was a damn good deal."_

At the moment, Dean almost agreed with them. Even as he fought it, plans sprung unbidden in his mind. If that sorcerer's brother couldn't undo what he'd done, maybe he could pay for it himself. Sounded like justice to Dean.

_"Sam won't do it, boy. You know that. And if you think you can get away with it without him knowin', you're stupider than you look."_

Ignoring Bobby's attempt at lightening the conversation, Dean scowled into the receiver. "Then what are we supposed to do, Bobby? There has to be something."

_"Even if your brother agreed to this ritual, I'm not that sure it'd work. The thing's all tied with bows – reads more like a damn Valentine card than a spell. Some moron at some time probably thought he'd fix it to make ritualistic murder sound prettier."_

"How much time do we have exactly, Bobby?" Dean needed to know how long they had, down to the minute if he could.

_"Not much," Bobby replied, his voice a notch lower, "Things'll just keep getting' worse __– a lot worse. His respiratory system'll shut down, his muscles'll give out, and then everything else goes to crap."_

Dean closed his eyes and tried to keep from crushing the phone. "Find something, Bobby."

"Dean?" Sam called, "What's he saying?"

Dean lowered the phone from his mouth and turned to face his brother. "He, ah, thinks he found one way to undo it. But it takes a… living sacrifice."

Head shaking back and forth, Sam refused the option without a word. "Anything else?"

Fingers gripping the phone in a vise, Dean murmured, "No. Not yet."

Sam's hand reached out toward him. "Let me talk to Bobby."

Handing the phone over, Dean watched closely as Sam greeted Bobby and then was silent for a few moments, listening.

"The brother, right. Where'd he find the spell? Maybe. Yeah, I get it." Sam's voice dropped in pitch, his face becoming stony. "Bobby, listen, if I don't… You don't know that… Please, Bobby. I can't…"

Dean doubted Sam was pleading for his own life.

"Okay. Yeah. Bye." Sam pulled away from the phone and offered it to Dean, who took it with numb hands. It was cold against the heated flesh of his ear.

"Yeah?"

_"Look, the way this curse is put together, there've gotta be at least a couple loopholes. Somethin' we can use to pull the thing apart. From the look of the photo you sent, that idjit didn't know much about what he was doing. Did the job, but not clean like, so there's bound to be cracks in the composition. But any scapegoat I find'll probably involve blood sacrifice or somethin' close to it."_

Meaning Sam wouldn't take the way out. "Just find it, Bobby. Please."

The line was cut with a soft click.

Dean buried his phone back in his pocket and took a seat on his bed, elbows on his knees, facing Sam. "He might be able to find something else."

Without looking up from the book he had returned to, Sam shook his head. "Nothing we can try, Dean. He told me the same thing he told you, man."

Dean ignored that, eyes drifting to the hideous seahorse statue that still snarled at him with that stupid mouth. He shivered and shifted restlessly on the bed, watching as Sam's eyes slide closed again, book held loosely in his palms. A feeling of _need_ washed over him, and suddenly Dean couldn't stand the sight of Sam lying unconscious on the bed. He needed him awake, he needed him to be okay.

Casting around for anything to say, a sudden thought struck without warning. He debated, the words pushing impatiently at his lips. He wanted Sam's eyes open, looking at him.

"What, Dean?" Sam asked, eyes still closed.

Dean briefly wondered if he'd been thinking aloud.

"What did you mean, 'It feels like a hex bag'? How can you feel a hex bag?" Okay, so it was a stupid question, but it was something to talk about that didn't make him feel like he might go insane.

Sam was silent for a count of three. He took a breath. "I don't know. It's just... the last time someone hexed me, I got this feeling. Like a pressure on the inside of my skull. That's kind of what it felt like, so I thought..."

Dean nodded slowly, then cleared his throat. "You, uh, had some witch hex you?" he asked, trying for casual. In all the time Dean had known Sam, the kid had never been on the receiving end of a hex. It had to be new, and while he hated thinking about Sam hurt by witches with no one to watch his back, Dean needed to know.

Lips quirking, Sam opened his eyes and glanced at Dean. "Yeah. Hurt like hell, too. I can see why you were so whiney when they went after you, man."

Dean tried to throw back a retort, he really did; he even had a few stingers waiting in the sidelines. But the sight of Sam lying on his back, struggling for his life and losing - he couldn't do it.

A continuation of his thought occurred to him. "How many witches?" Geez, sounded like a line from a children's book. A twisted children's book.

Sam huffed. "You wanna know how I got to recognize what a hex felt like? Yeah, there were a few hexes. It's no big deal, Dean." He closed his eyes again. "Spent most of my time hunting demons, anyway."

And just like that, Sam shut down again.

Wanting to ask more questions but knowing Sam would answer none of them, Dean resigned himself to going back to the computer to search for a way to save his brother. He reached out with one hand and laid it against Sam's ankle, tightening his grip. He wanted Sam to know he was there no matter what, and that he wasn't leaving. He would save Sam if it was the last thing he did.

x.x.x.x.x

Dean glanced at the clock, his breath hitching when he saw how much time had gone by. Glancing at Sam, he was relieved to see that his brother hadn't seen his reaction. The last thing he needed was Sam to have another reason to want him gone. Irritation flared at the thought of his brother's order – Hell would freeze over before Dean left Sam like this. And he'd been there – no ice.

"You got anything, Geek Boy?"

Lifting his eyes from the old book, Sam shook his head and glared. "Jerk. You?"

Opening his mouth to respond, Dean was cut off as the phone shrieked in the relative silence. The heater's clanking seemed to intensify, as though energized by the whine of the motel telephone. Dean's head snapped toward Sam. They looked at each other, both uneasy. No one called them on their motel phone, ever.

Reaching out, Sam snagged the phone with two fingers and lifted it to his ear. "Yeah?" Whatever blood remained in Sam's face was drained by the voice he heard.

"What is it? Sam?" Dean demanded, moving to his brother's side, senses on high alert.

"It's the, uh…the brother."

"Give me the phone." Not waiting for Sam to hand it over, Dean snatched the yellowed receiver and pressed it to his ear. "Break the curse or I swear to God I will tear you apart, you son of a bitch."

The voice chuckled lightly. _"No preamble, huh? Fine. Then let's dispense with the pleasantries. You're brother is dying, and then you will die. There's no way out, Winchester. Now, if you'll put Sam back on the phone…"_

"You don't get to talk to him," Dean growled.

_"Let's not be dramatic. I just wanted to ask him how it feels."_

"How what feels?" His patience rolled over in its grave.

_"To know he's going to die. To know that you'll die after he does. Speaking of which, how's your brother doing? I didn't expect him to last this long. You two are full of surprises, aren't you?"_

Dean gripped the phone tighter, the plastic squeaked in protest. "What the hell do you want?"

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, _"I want you to watch your brother as you lose him. Take a good look, Dean, because I'm taking him away from you. He's going to die screaming, and you can't stop it."_

Rage gripped him by the shoulders, fueling him. "You son of a—"

_"You deserve this. You _both_ do. He was just the lucky one to go first."_

"You have a reason for this, or are you just as psycho as your brother is?" Dean snapped.

_"How dare you mention him_," Jeremy hissed.

Brow furrowed in confusion, Dean glanced down at Sam. "Should that mean something to me?"

_"You two took my brother from me!"_ Jeremy screamed, his voice breaking.

"What the hell are you talking about?" They hadn't done anything but get the little creep arrested.

_"He killed himself. They arrested him and the next morning he was dead. You took _everything_ from him, and then I lost everything I loved. Do you know what it's like to lose your brother? To get there too late to do _anything_? It's like dying, only the pain just keep going."_ He laughed a bitter laugh. _"I guess you'll be in my company soon. Sam won't last much longer."_

Dean's voice dropped dangerously. He took an unconscious step closer to Sam, who was watching him with stony features. "If anything happens to my brother, nothing on this earth will save you."

Jeremy chuckled._ "Are you threatening to kill me? I'm already dead."_

Dean's jaw shifted, hardened. "I'm not going to kill you, but you'll wish to God I had."

Barely throwing his brother a glance, Dean froze when he saw a look that he hadn't seen in a long time. It was the look Sam used to give him when he'd had a nightmare, or when he'd had a really rough day; it was the look that said he needed his big brother close to him to keep away all the bad things.

Big brother instincts humming loudly, Dean moved closer, letting his other hand brush against Sam's shoulder. And just like that, Sam pulled himself together, throwing on the stubbornly calm façade that he had down pat. But he didn't push Dean away, and that was something.

Silence fell over the phone. _"You won't find me. You won't leave him to come after me, not when I can't save him. And very soon I'll be with my brother, out of your reach. I'll see you both in Hell, Winchester."_

Dean slowly lowered the phone from his ear, still clenching it tight in his fingers. He blinked once, seeing red.

"Dean?"

Laying the phone back into its cradle, all Dean could feel was raw fury demanding that he get his hands around that bastard's throat. Anger as he hadn't known in a long time rushed over him in a hot wave of boiling animosity. If he ever found him, he would peel him apart until he couldn't scream, until he was nothing but his pain. And then he would burn the pieces.

"Dean!"

His attention snapped back to Sam, immediately searching his brother for more injuries. Finding none, he scowled. "What?"

"What'd he say?"

"What do you think he said? He wants us both six feet under," Dean all but snapped. He quickly reined it in; his brother hadn't done anything. But Sam seemed not to have noticed his tone.

"Did he say why?"

"His brother killed himself. Apparently we're the cause." He smiled grimly.

Sam frowned. "We are, in a way. Magic and murder was the center of the guy's life. We burned it all."

"Don't give me that. There's always a choice, and this guy made the wrong one," Dean growled.

Unsure of which brother Dean was talking about, Sam simply remained silent. If someone had done something to Dean that led his brother to take his life, Sam would have hunted them down. But that didn't mean he'd let the guy kill Dean – Ruby would get a halo first. He snorted at the idea.

Dean shot Sam a questioning look as if to ask if he'd lost his mind. "What're you laughing at? Homicidal maniacs funny to you?"

He shook his head in disbelief. "Our lives are so screwed up, man. It kind of amazes me sometimes."

"You'll get used to it. I amaze myself at every turn." Dean shot him a grin. It was a weak joke, but it was the best they could do at the moment.

Sam's quick returning smile faded into sobriety. There were things he had to say, and his brother wasn't going to like them. "Dean, you have to promise me you'll leave if things don't work out."

"Come on, Sammy. We've been together long enough that you know I'm too clingy to find someone else," Dean joked. When Sam seemed less than amused, Dean let go of his smile, dropping onto the edge of his bed with a sharp exhale. He rubbed his hands over his scalp, feeling the oil that had begun to build up. "Don't start that again. I'm not leaving, get over it."

"Dean…"

Dean raised a hand, cutting him off.

He knew Sam wished a normal life for him, wished that he could somehow move on and live happily while the world waiting to explode in fire with Sam at its heart. Dean could do that; he could live without a house or a picket fence, a wife or kids, a paid job or football night with buddies.

What he couldn't live without was staring at him through eyes dulled with pain, asking him to let go and find something else to love. Might as well ask him to take up needle point or become an accountant. Sam didn't understand how much Dean needed him. And God, he needed his brother.

"Go to sleep, Sam. I'll wake you when Bobby calls next."

x.x.x.x.x

Four more hours had gone by, damn it. Less than a day and they'd either have their answer or Dean would tear into that magic bitch himself. Let him watch his blood run out of his body for a change, then they'd see how soon the little creep would sic his curses on someone.

Glancing at the clock for the fifth time in three minutes, Dean felt his chest constrict. The red numbers slithered by far too fast, leaving empty fear in their wake. If this feeling of helpless terror was anything close to what Sam had been going through that last year of Dean's life, Dean had no idea how the kid made it through. Dean hadn't.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face as he investigated another completely useless website full of Latin crap. Once again, no way out that Sam would accept any of those answers – or if Sam was suddenly game to drink the blood of a virgin from the empty skull of a newborn, Dean didn't know it.

Briefly, he was irked that while Sam was full of his new zen-master-freakiness, that new cold edge didn't extend to saving his own life. And he knew that if Sam could swing it, Dean would be out of the state in two seconds flat. Anger bubbled to the surface through his panic as he thought about Sam ordering him to leave. Sam was afraid for him, though why he thought Dean could leave him was baffling.

Maybe he thought Dean would try something stupid to get him out of this; if he did think that, he was right. There weren't many boundaries to what Dean would do for Sam. But he knew; he understood how someone sacrificing their life for you could tear holes in places that hurt like hell. Glancing at his brother, Dean remembered that Sam already understood that feeling. Neither wanted that feeling back.

Sam was once again unconscious, his breathing interrupted with short gasps for breath. Sometimes he would get so still that Dean felt the need to take his pulse and feel for the barely-present escape of air from his body. Letting out a sharp exhale, Dean crossed the room to sit on his bed. It wasn't close enough. Extending his leg, he hooked a foot around the leg of a chair, dragging it close. He scooted close to the edge of Sam's bed.

Frowning, Dean noticed that Sam had kicked his covers off in his sleep. He used to do that as a little kid and would wake up freezing. More often than not, Sam would then scooch into bed with Dean, snuggling close for warmth. Dean, woken by freezing little toes on his legs, had been none too happy, but he had never kicked the kid out. Like he could ever deny Sam something he needed.

For a moment he wished he could do just that – hold his little brother close and keep him warm and safe. But the kid was friggin' Goliath, and he had the feeling Sam would freak out more than a little if Dean instigated a hug, followed by a round of holy water and a "Christo" thrown in for good measure.

Snagging the edge of the blankets, Dean pulled them up around Sam's shoulders. Sam sighed and shifted, on arm falling over the edge of the bed. Dean caught his brother's hand and lifted it to rest on top of the covers. The hand was large, strong and calloused; it was very different than the tiny one that used to seek Dean's when little Sammy was scared.

Now, instead of wanting him to be close to keep the creatures away, Sam wanted Dean to run while his little brother faced his monsters alone. Yeah, that was gonna happen.

Brushing his fingers over Sam's forehead, Dean cleared away the mess of bangs. The kid needed a haircut. When was the last time he'd gotten one? He couldn't remember. He'd have to get that taken care of soon.

Dean rubbed the pad of his thumb against the inside of Sam's wrist, feeling his brother's heart beating through the pulse point. It was a habit picked up during nights spent in roadside motels and hospitals while waiting for his brother to recover. It reassured Dean that Sam was still alive, still there, and that everything else could be dealt with in time. So long as Sam was still with him.

Blinking dry eyes, he shifted to a more comfortable position, resisting the sleep that pulled at the edges of his consciousness. He wouldn't close his eyes while Sam was in trouble. Just the thought sent a familiar fear thrilling through him; the fear that if he closed his eyes, Sam would be gone, taken away from him while Dean wasn't watching. And he couldn't wake up without Sam there. Couldn't do it.

A guitar solo exploded in the silence. Nearly jumping out of his skin, Dean whipped his cell out and flipped it open. "Please give me something, Bobby."

_"I found another way out, kid. No ritual sacrifice, no nothin' from any innocent bystander."_

Hope fluttered against Dean's throat, uninvited in his world of realism and determination. Then Bobby's tone sunk in. "What?" he demanded.

_"You're not gonna like it, Son."_

"Bobby, what?" And the hope died, crushed flatter than a pita before it could so much as sooth the aching panic settled in around Dean's heart.

_"There's a cost. And the severity depends on who's makin' the payment."_

He couldn't ask again. He waited.

_"From what I'm seein', it's a ritual for sacrificing a few years of life. Nine or ten should do the trick with Sam's curse."_ Bobby's words were measured, carefully spoken.

For a few seconds, Dean said nothing, letting his mind absorb what he was hearing. And with comprehension came apprehension. "How's that work, Bobby?"

_"Wish I knew. That's all it says; no explanations… It's an easy ritual. Just need a few symbols and a sprinkling of Latin. Surprised I found it even. It was in the back of some out of print book written by a backwoods hermit."_

Dean ignored the background story and skipped to the part about losing years of life. "Does it predict your death and then subtract years from that date? Or what? I need more to go on, here, Bobby," Dean murmured sharply to the phone, glancing down at Sam. He slept on.

_"Could be actual years, might not be. Can't know for sure." _

"So this could kill him."

_"Could," _Bobby replied evenly. There was a moment of contemplative silence from the other end of the line. _"Put your brother on."_

Brother reflexes in Dean ordered that he let Sam rest, but they were running out of time. Laying a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, he spoke his brother's name and shook him slightly. Sam's eyes snapped open and his hand was halfway to the knife under his pillows before he registered who was next to him. Figured – the kid was dying and he was still a hunter to the core.

"What? What'd I miss?" Sam croaked. He cleared his throat. His face was pale as slate.

"Bobby." Dean handed over the cell.

Sam blinked furiously for a moment, clearing away the sweat that stung his eyes. He took the phone in a shaking hand. "Yeah, Bobby?" he sighed.

Waiting in the sidelines was never something Dean did well, but the ferocity of his impatience as he watched Sam listen to Bobby surprised even him. For a few moments, Sam said nothing, simply listening to what Bobby had to say. He struggled to prop himself up again, and Dean reached out to help him only to have his hand absently shrugged off of Sam's arm.

"Is it literal?" Sam asked as soon as he was leaning against the wall.

Bobby's muffled electronic voice answered back.

"Makes sense. Thanks Bobby. Call me when you have it." The phone flipped shut and was offered back to Dean.

"What'd Bobby say?" Dean asked, taking the phone from his brother's clammy hand.

"I can sacrifice a few years of my life to get rid of this thing. He's not sure if it's literal, but it could be. He's pretty sure it might mean a certain percentage of your life, not actual years like we know them. Otherwise, if the person's scheduled to keel over in a month, the gods or whoever don't get their full payment." Sam's reply was calm, interrupted only by a couple suppressed coughs that made his body tremble.

"Or?"

"Or it could really mean years. Not sure."

"Huh, great. What else?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Nothing. That's it."

"No, that's not it."

"Dude, I'm not drinking blood from a skull or something to fix this. If I don't take this deal, we both die," Sam said, utterly rational.

Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, Dean try to knock some sense into his brother. "Sam, we don't know anything about this. We're not just gonna—"

"We're running out of time, man. As soon as Bobby calls back with the specifics of the spell, it's gotta be done."

Dean froze, feeling the familiar fingers of panic crawl up his neck. There had to be another way. He couldn't allow this and then watch Sam drop dead straight away because they'd taken too many years. No way in hel – heck he was doing that. He'd kill the bastard magician first and see if that helped.

Sam's disembodied voice floated through his mind, his tone flat. _Yeah? How're you gonna find him, Dean? Bobby had to have tried locating spells and that doesn't seem to work. Even if we do find him, he can't fix it. We don't have another option, man_. Dean wondered if it was healthy to hear his brother's voice in his head while he was sitting right across from him.

"Dean, it's just a few years of my life," Sam said, blinking to keep unconsciousness from closing his eyes.

"No, it's not. Which years, Sam? Do they just skim 'em from you now? Do you drop dead years ahead of schedule? We don't know." Dean stood and began pacing between the ends of the beds and the nightstand between them.

And then Sam saw it, the fear-filled horror stirring underneath Dean's crumbling front. He was terrified of losing Sam. And he had a point; if Sam was scheduled to die years ahead of his destined date or whatever, he could be dead as soon as he made the deal. Or he could keel over at any point from then on.

He sighed in frustration. "I don't know what to do, then, Dean. Either I take the risk or I die tonight and you die tomorrow. I'm not seeing a whole lot of options, man."

Dean's eyes snapped to Sam's face. "You're not dying," he growled, resuming his pacing.

"Maybe," Sam said with a hitch of his shoulder.

Fury slammed unexpectedly through Dean. "Damn it, Sam!" he barked. His hand shot out and caught the demonic seahorse statue, whipping it against the opposite wall. The thing shattered against the paneling and exploded across the floor. The right half of the head skittered to a stop a few feet from Dean, one eye and half its teeth still taunting him. He wanted to smash it.

Taking a breath, he turned back to his brother. "Since when do you just roll over and die, huh?" He meant for the words to be iron-hard, but they came out pleading.

Sam's eyes met his steadily. "I don't. But I'm not pretending everything's okay. I could drop dead anytime _now_. With our job…" He shook his head. "This wouldn't make a hell of a lot of difference." He leaned back, his head clunking softly against the wall. A bitter smile pulled at his lips. "I've kind of been living on borrowed time, Dean."

Scowling, Dean paced closer to Sam. "Haven't we both? Look—"

"No."

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Not 'we,' Dean. Me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Turning to face him, Sam took a shallow breath as his lungs constricted once again. "You died, Dean. Heaven brought you back."

He quit pacing altogether. "So?"

"So, your life was given back. No charge."

"Yet," Dean muttered.

Sam shook his head a fraction of an inch, feeling the pull of his worn muscles through the minute motion. "You're not the one who should be dead, Dean."

"And you are?" Dean bit out.

Sam's eyes hardened as he regarded his brother. "You remember what you said after Dad sold his soul for you?"

Wincing at the barely-pulled punch, Dean said nothing.

"Not everything that's dead should stay that way, but some things should," Sam murmured, letting his eyes slide shut, teeth clenched against pain he wouldn't talk about.

Dean was acutely aware of the minutes as they passed by in silence. He watched his brother's chest rise and fall to an irregular, struggled rhythm. He willed it to keep going, keep working, until he could find a way to save him. Dean tried to ignore Sam's last words as they whispered themselves in his ear on repeat. _But some things should…_

"Is that it, Sammy? You want to die?" His voice came as a scratchy mutter. They'd never talked about this, ever. Not once. And Dean didn't want to start now, but he wasn't seeing a whole lot of options.

"No." Sam's voice startled him when it came. "But like you said, we're not gonna be doing this when we're old."

He knew what Sam meant. Hell, he'd said it to him not long ago. They would both be dead and gone before they reached their ripe years. But… _Me first, Sammy. God, me first._ Dean wasn't letting Sam go ahead of him, not again. But things hadn't turned out so well when he went first, either. Together it was, then.

A rustle alerted him to Sam's watchful gaze. Dean glanced at him, still not trusting himself to speak without biting Sam's head off like he kind of deserved. But he couldn't stop the "What the hell is going on with you, Sam?" when it came out. Because Dean couldn't figure it out. Things had been off since he'd returned from Hell, and they'd been…odder, worse maybe, since the whole thing with Jay.

"I'm dying from an ancient curse some jerk botched, Dean. Where've you been?" Sam joked.

Dean didn't laugh at Sam's sick sense of humor. "That's not what I mean. Why in the hell won't you fight this?"

"I'm trying to. Bobby just gave us a solu—"

"No."

Sam sighed in frustration. "I'm doing it, Dean."

Dean scowled. "No, you're not, Sam."

"How're you gonna stop me?" He spoke firmly, confidently.

Waving a hand at Sam's deteriorating body, Dean said, "You're not in top form, brother."

"Dean."

The pain and sorrow, fear and determination made Dean look up when his brother spoke. The look on Sam's face – dark and broken – nearly ripped his heart out through his chest.

"Dean, I don't ever want you hurt because of me. Ever. And I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure that doesn't happen. You're not stopping me." With that, Sam shifted to his side, back facing Dean, who was left alone.

* * *

Hey, if adversity sparks creativity, what does boredom do?


	3. Chapter 3

I have learned something new from writing this story - multi-chapter fics are _way _different to write than one shots. I'm not sure if it's a good different or not yet... We'll see.

Thanks to everyone who has read and/or reviewed. I love to hear from people, so drop me some feedback.

* * *

Sam slowly eased himself toward the edge of the mattress, struggling to keep his muscles tense enough to maintain silence. The bathroom door was closed and a soft light crept out from underneath it, letting Sam know that his brother was occupied at the moment. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but he wasn't waiting any longer. He cursed the intermittent bouts of unexpected unconsciousness that would hit him.

An unexpected stab of pain caught him between his ribs, dragging a gasp from him. He curled in on himself, praying that Dean hadn't heard him – if anything would send his brother running, it was a sign of pain or peril from Sam. After waiting a beat, he let out his breath, convinced Dean was still ignorant of his intentions.

Rising slowly to his feet, Sam tested his balance and strength, deciding they would be enough to get him outside. He still had his sneakers on his feet, having asked Dean to leave them as they were, having claimed that his feet were cold. After pausing for a moment to snag his phone off the nightstand, Sam headed stiffly for the door, flinching when he caught his hip on the table. He inclined his head toward the bathroom, listening and hearing nothing. Still no sign that Dean had heard him.

Suspicion tapped Sam on the shoulder and he turned his head a bit more. The bathroom door was still shut, no noise coming from inside. It was odd that his brother hadn't heard anything, especially with the way he watched Sam now – more like a first time parent than a brother, Sam thought with a silent snort. But he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, either.

As soon as he was far enough away, he would call Bobby and have him bring the necessary ingredients for the ritual. Bobby had been clear that some of the herbs weren't easy to get, let alone prepare properly. But, all things considered, it was a fairly simple ritual. Sam knew he'd be able to get Bobby to come to him – the older hunter wouldn't endanger his and Dean's life just because Sam took off. He hated to do that to Bobby, but Sam was willing to do whatever it took to save his brother's life.

Dean's irate voice echoed in his head. _What about your life, huh?_

Waving his hand at his imaginary brother, Sam dismissed the question. He'd be fine if Dean was.

Finally he was at the door, and with a last glance at the room, he turned the handle and slipped outside. Nails of discomfort scratched along his intestines, making him cringe as he quietly tapped the door shut behind him. Why the hell did curses have to hurt in freakish ways? Why not a good old-fashioned headache? The eel of pain writhing in his chest let him know just what it thought of that. Breathing steadily through his nose, Sam waited for a moment until the pain faded to a dull ache. Not that he didn't get enough brain splitting headaches with the uh, _training_ he was going through, but a regular one instead of hoodoo pain might be nice once in a while.

Facing the empty parking lot, Sam stared at trunk of the Impala and a moment of indecision seized him, quickly shaken off. He wasn't taking the Chevy – Dean would hunt him down with a vengeance and rip out his kidney with a fork if he so much as put a knick into the car's shiny exterior. Ignoring the thought of what Dean would do when he found him missing, Sam shuffled forward, painfully aware of the stiffness traveling up his legs and toward his heart.

In the corner of the parking lot sat an old pickup that practically screamed "Hijack me!" with both its front windows rolled down. Sam felt it was only reasonable to oblige. Steeling himself for the trip across the lot, Sam veered left and walked past the Impala on his way over.

"Looking for me?"

Sam's heart leapt into his mouth and lodged firmly beneath his tongue. "Geez!" he hissed, jerking away from the voice.

Dean was lying leisurely on the hood of the Chevy, one arm tucked behind his head. Half a bitter smile played across his mouth as he eyed Sam with worry and cool irritation. "Just got back from talking to a contact – imagine how surprised I was to see you through the window, sneaking toward the front door. Figured I'd wait out here to see you off."

"Just out for a walk," Sam replied evenly. He swallowed hard, trying to get his heart back down into his chest where it belonged.

One eyebrow raised in mock surprise, Dean lowered his chin. "Sure you don't mean a drive?"

With a sigh, he shuffled forward until he was standing in front of Dean. "I'm not leaving, Dean, I'm just…"

"You're not? Because that's what it looks like from where I'm sitting, Sam."

"Move a bit to the left; you'll see what I'm talking about," Sam attempted to joke.

Rising to a seated position with lethal grace, Dean leaned toward Sam, his eyes closed off. "I shouldn't be surprised, I guess. Were you planning on leaving a note, or were you going to let me figure it out on my own again?" He leaned on his knees, eyes never straying from Sam's. "I thought you had that little ritual to perform. Gonna be able to swing it alone?"

Wincing at that edge behind Dean's words, Sam hunched forward a bit, feeling a pressure begin to build in his chest. "I'm still doing it, Dean. Just—"

"About fifty miles from here? Yeah, I got that."

Moving a hand to press against his ribs, Sam fought the prickling of unconsciousness behind his eyes. He hadn't left a note, and he hadn't thought far enough ahead to figure out what to do if Dean caught him. The L word – leaving – was one of the things his brother hated and feared most.

But it had never once been about Dean, though Sam knew his brother didn't see things that way – what Dean saw was 'failure' spelled out in retreating tire tracks. Even when he knew Sam was trying to save his stupid brother's life, it didn't make a difference. The only thing Dean would hear was "I didn't trust you enough to fix this."

"So, you go off and do the ritual. _If_ you make it to wherever you were headed, what's the plan if the counter spell doesn't work? I just get to find you dead in some motel room? I don't think so."

Sam cringed at the steel-hard edge to his brother's voice. "Somebody's gotta save your ass, Dean." _Always the protector._

"I'm not the one with the curse," Dean shot back.

"Not yet."

"Not ever." The words were hard and sharp, denying everything that was implied by Sam's last sentence.

"I'll call you every half hour, if you want, and I'll be back as soon as this thing's taken care of," Sam bargained, knowing nothing he said would do any good.

"You're not leaving."

"Dude, don't—"

"You can barely stand, Sam. How exactly are you planning on driving fifty miles?" Dean demanded.

"Carefully."

"Cute. Get back inside."

Sam threw a hand in the air, the other curled protectively around his throbbing chest. "I'll take a freaking taxi, okay? I just need to get away from here, man."

Hurt flashed across Dean's eyes before he buried it. "Heard that before," he said softly.

"It's not like that. I told you, I'm not letting you die." Not this time. "And if I have to steal a car and drive a few miles to do that, I'm gonna do it."

"Huh. So we're taking turns now? You die, I die, and now you figure it's your turn again?" His tone was hard.

Sam tightened his jaw, tipping his chin toward the ground; he was pretty sure he'd already died a few weeks back. Luckily, pulling that coin from the fountain had fixed that before his brother had had a chance to find his body. Struck by lightning; it was a first for the Winchester family. Magic lightning, but still. But he'd be damned before he'd let Dean take another turn.

"Look, Bobby and I are pretty sure the ritual will work, but just in case something gets screwed up, I don't want you in firing distance. Please, Dean." Sam watched as his last words had their desired affect and then some. Dean's posture stiffened, but the resolve in his eyes only strengthened. Crap.

"Do you really think fifty miles is going to keep me alive if this goes south, Sam?" The question was rough and low, almost pained.

As Dean's full meaning hit him, Sam tried to ignore it. He couldn't think about it and stay sane; Dean had to live. "I can't—"

Sam broke off with stifled cry, his arm clamping around his chest. He crumpled fast, hitting the pavement hard with his knees. His head bent forward, hair spilling into his face as his eyes screwed shut. Wave after wave of pain broke over his ribs, driving through his lungs. Fire, they were on fire.

"Hey, Sammy, look at me." Dean's voice came from far away. "Come on, hey."

Hands went to his shoulders, and Sam wrapped his fingers around Dean's wrists to ground himself. The world stopped spinning when he touched Dean, and he was able to fight his way out of the haze and back into his oh-so-lovely life. But Dean was there, and that was always enough.

"Sammy? Are you hurt?" The hands tightened on his arms.

Sam fought the urge to laugh – that was always the question, wasn't it? "Besides freaking hoodoo messing with my system, no, I'm just peachy." He tasted iron in his mouth.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." As if to prove his point, Sam raised his head to meet Dean's searching gaze and gave a small smile. The pain began to fade away for the moment, leaving bruising shadows in its wake.

Dean's hands relaxed just a little. "Peachy? Dude, could you get any gayer?"

This time Sam let himself huff a laugh, regretting it a little when it his lungs protested. "Don't make me laugh."

Instead of the witty comeback Sam expected, Dean's response was "Sorry," followed by a sturdy arm around his shoulders that guided him back to his feet. Two Ibuprofen and a glass of water later and he was back where he started, lying on the ugly motel bed with Dean hovering not two feet away. Damn, maybe he wasn't as stealthy as he thought he was.

Switching gears, Dean fixed him with a penetrating glare. "What if you'd crashed the car? Ever think of that, genius?"

Sudden cold washed through Sam's veins – no, he hadn't thought of that, not really. If he died, then Dean would have to do the ritual himself. In truth, Sam was about 45% sure the ritual wouldn't take his life – a fact he wouldn't be sharing with Dean – and he wasn't going to let his brother take that risk, not after he'd given everything already. A tiny voice in his mind whispered that Dean wouldn't bother with the ritual if Sam died after taking off; it was a voice he routinely dismissed.

"Besides, this town is has like 500 people in it – there are zero taxis around here. Most people don't even have cars," Dean concluded, crossing his arms over his chest.

True. Damn. Sam wanted to reiterate that Dean should be the one to go, but he feared the reaction that might get him. He didn't want to put any more on Dean's shoulders, but the jerk wasn't giving him a lot of options. Momentarily stymied, Sam switched topics. "Your contact have anything?" he ventured to ask.

The look on Dean's face answered that pretty quick. "Just the same old blood sacrifice – figured that one was still a 'no,' unless…?"

"No."

"Right."

"So we still go with Bobby's ritual."

"No."

"Dean." Frustrated.

"You want food?"

"No, and stop redirecting."

"You first."

"I'm not— You're such a… You know what, fine. I think you're being stupid – you should get the hell out, because if you so much as think about sacrificing yourself for me, I'll—" Sam irately cast around for something appropriately threatening, coming up empty handed, "I'll kick your ass," he finished spectacularly.

"Shakin' in my boots over here, Stretch."

"I'm not kidding. Not even close, Dean. You do anything even remotely stupid, I'll stop you."

Before Dean could retort, Sam hissed, jerking as pain slashed across his chest. He shoved Dean's worried hand away, still angry.

"I'm finding a way out of this, and it's not going to be one that costs your life, Sam," Dean said coldly. When Sam ignored him, Dean scowled turned to grab another bottle of water.

Behind Dean's words, Sam heard Dean say he would sacrifice himself if he damn well needed to; Sam felt fire behind his eyes.

"No! Damn it, Dean!" He surged to his feet, ignoring the way the world swirled lazily in front of him. He blinked hard, trying to keep his focus.

Surprised, Dean turned halfway to glance at his brother. Sam was standing, one arm wrapped around his chest and the other clenched in fury. Anger was written across his face even as his body trembled in weakness.

"The last time I died, you didn't give me a choice. You don't get to make that decision, not this time. I'm doing the ritual Bobby gave us, and if you so much as think about stopping me, I swear I'll kill you myself."

Sam swayed on his feet, but his eyes never left his brother.

"Sam." The word wrenched itself from Dean's throat, cracking with fear.

"I don't need you to save me, Dean," Sam said softly, "I need you to live. Please, I need to do this."

"I can't." The confession was paper-thin and pained.

Exhaling, Sam sank back onto his bed, dropping his head into his hands. "You're the one who said we need to quit trading souls, Dean. What the hell are you planning to do?"

"Nothing." _Yet_.

"Yet," Sam snapped.

"Look, just calm down, stay still and let's find way out of this. We've pulled friggin' antelopes out of hats before, dude. And like I said, the smarter brother's back in town."

Scowling, Sam mentally cursed his brother's dogged determination to save everyone – _everyone_, and especially Sam. "I don't know what you want me to do! You don't want me to do the ritual, you won't let me leave, you won't leave – what the hell _can_ I do to end this curse?"

"You can sit down for a second and help me figure it out, for one," Dean shot back. He frowned. "And you're not leaving, damn it."

"Why can't you see that we have to separate? We don't and we both die."

"Nothing good happens when we split up and you know it. We're stronger _together_, Sam."

"Not if we're both six feet under." Sam leaned his head back against the wall, fisting his hands in the covers of the bed. The blood in his head was pounding a tattoo against his skull, and he was sick of arguing. "Just let me take that ugly-ass truck and get the hell out."

"You try that again and I'll tie you to the freaking bed, got it?"

Sam leaned back against the wall, his eyes aching to close. No, he didn't get it. "Don't swing that way, man," he mumbled.

"I'm serious, Sam."

"Me too. I don't care what you told people when I was a senior, I'm not trying that." He elbowed the pillows behind him, searching for a more comfortable position.

"Sam." And suddenly Dean was sitting next to him, his face close. The penetrating stare suddenly impaling Sam quick and hot; it told him that Dean knew everything about him, and it was a look that Sam had seen his whole life. Despite knowing Dean sure as hell didn't know everything, Sam couldn't help but believe it. He knew Dean would never leave, and he would never let Sam leave to die alone.

"Yeah?" Sam's voice broke.

"Please. I'm begging you to stay here, let me fix this. Because if I come back to find you gone, I'll lose it."

Sam's body froze in its place, shock and guilt damming his thoughts; no words came.

"I can't wake up without you here, not…" Dean broke off, throat jerking as he swallowed hard. "Just give me some time."

A small nod shook Sam's head, still unable to form coherent sentences. He sat still, watching Dean crack and break in front of him, and he knew he couldn't leave. If he did, it would kill his brother as surely as the curse would end his life. Words bubbled up to his lips, a fear that always lingered.

"No deals, man."

Dean grimaced. "Drop it, Sam."

Sam snorted. "Sorry if your damned soul is a sore topic for me."

"Sam…"

Sam held up a hand to stop him. "I'm gonna pass out, man. Wake me if you get the urge to sell something important," he snarked as his vision closed in. The last thing he saw was Dean's concerned face rushing toward him before he dropped back into the waiting dark.

x.x.x.x.x

Dean stood still, his shoulders rounded forward, watching his brother struggle to breath in his deep state of unconsciousness. His breath hitched and started, hitched and started, and Dean couldn't do a damn thing. He grasped his elbows tightly, feet planted apart at the end of the bed. Determination and anger came off of him in waves. He wasn't letting Sam die, not after everything he'd given to keep him. He'd traded his soul, he done his time, and he was keeping his little brother.

Ripping his gaze away from the sasquatch on the bed, Dean strode to the other end of the room, placing his remaining hope in his last option.

"Castiel," he whispered loudly. Could angels hear when people called? He supposed he would find out. "Cas!"

The room was bathed in silence, even the sounds of the rabid heater and the labored breaths of his brother fading away as though absorbed into the walls. The shadows in the room seemed to grow and lengthen, standing sharply against the yellow light cast by the single lamp atop the nightstand.

"It is not my job to be at your beck and call, Dean Winchester." The voice was deep and rumbled with the age of eons.

Dean turned slowly, letting his eyes rest easily on the tall, beige-coated figure of the angel. Mournful eyes that had seen millennia born and die met his gaze.

"And yet I call and poof, here you are."

"There is not time to waste – this war will not hesitate simply because you will it to do so." His head listed to the side to take in where the youngest Winchester lay out on the bed. "He is not important enough."

The words ratcheted Dean's irritation up another level. "He is to me."

Castiel's gaze returned to him, strikingly blue. "What is it that you want from me?"

Dean laid out all his cards. "I want you to heal him. I don't care what it takes, he needs to live."

Silence followed the broken plea, and Dean was regarded carefully. "We do not make deals, and we do not negotiate; we obey."

"Call it an agreement for mutual benefit, if that makes you feel better," Dean growled. He stopped, running a hand over his hair. "I can't let him do that ritual, Cas. It'll kill him."

Castiel turned, looking straight at the red symbol still emblazoned on the wall of the motel – the mark that was somehow indelible; Dean had tried in vain to scrape and scrub it off, giving up when it had taken time they didn't have. "Very few times have I seen mankind inflict this curse on itself; fewer times have I seen it broken." He turned back to Dean.

"But it can be done, right? People have done it?"

"Twice."

"How?" he asked, breath refusing to stay in his body.

"Once, a man confessed his unfaithfulness to his wife, and she forgave him totally. The other, a blood sacrifice was made."

Dean's mind raced. "The ritual Sam wants to do…would it work?"

Castiel contemplated the question not a second. "I do not know. Never before has it been used to break the curse. But this one," he swept a hand back toward the symbol, "Is very crudely done. There is potential for the ritual, but there is also great risk to your brother."

"What risk," Dean asked, his heart flapping frantically in his chest.

"If it is unsuccessful, your brother will die. Upon his death, his soul will remain trapped in his corpse until the day of Judgment, when such things will no longer hold sway."

Blood drained from Dean's face, and he wiped a hand over his mouth. "When's that?" He didn't care, but he couldn't let himself think about Sam trapped forever.

"It is a day only my Father knows."

"Is there a way to stop his soul from getting…stuck?"

"I do not believe there is. If such a way exists, I am ignorant of it."

Dean shifted, his nerves rolling beneath his skin. "I can't let that happen, Cas. He can't do that, not because some idiot with a wand had a psychotic break." He faced the angel squarely, his face displaying his sorry and request. "I need your help."

"Dean, I cannot save your brother. My mission is not for him." The answer smashed Dean's legs out from under him, leaving him to tumble without a net.

"Then who's it for? Me?" he demanded.

"In part," was the vaguely helpful reply.

"Then you need to save Sam. If I lose him," Dean pointed a hand to the bed, his arm shaking, "I'm following. I can't be here without him; I can't live with him dead." When Castiel remained silent, Dean pressed on, his words growing harder and darker. "So if your boss wants me for whatever plans He has, you'll have to do something to help Sam. If he's out of the game, then so am I." The words rang truer than most he had ever spoken. Even as he trembled with the fear of facing the Pit, a worse fear had soaked into his skin and through his body; it was the fear of losing Sam. Of losing him to demons, angels, people – to all the things that kept trying to pull Sam away; all the things he fought against to keep him.

Castiel watched him through attentive eyes, tilting his head ever so slightly to the right. "There is nothing outside the hands of my Father. Each life is precious to Him."

"So why won't he save my brother?" The words came out in a sob.

"I do not understand his ways – they are beyond me." Castiel paused at the pain flashing behind Dean Winchester's eyes.

Dean's fingers briefly curled into his palms and then relaxed, hanging curved at his sides. "So what am I supposed to do? I can't leave him like this, and I can't let him die for me. He _won't_ die saving me."

A sadness settled over Castiel. "His love for you will be his undoing."

Terror ripped out the bottom of Dean's gut. "What? W-what are you talking about?" His voice tripped and fell over the rocky terrain of his thoughts, fear trickling through the crevices. "What the hell do you mean, 'his undoing'? What does that mean?" Dean demanded hoarsely, fearfully, angrily.

"I cannot know. It is simply what I have been told." He turned to Sam, his eyes deep with sorrow. "He understands this – it has been told to him as well."

Dean panicked. "Can you help me save my brother or not?" he barked, stepping forward.

The blue eyes were back on him. "I cannot. But I will pray for you and your brother, that it is in His Will to save him."

"I need more than that. Please, Cas…it's Sammy." The last words were dropped as a whisper, and every human feeling he possessed was poured into them.

Remorse flickered across the angel's face, and then it had faded away. "Pray."

And in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

x.x.x.x.x

Time pressed heavy and hard on Dean's temples. He popped a couple aspirin to combat the growing throb in his skull, hoping it was a headache and nothing more. He shot a quick glance over at Sam, who seemed to be doing fine, all things considered. He was still out of it, his breathing slightly less uniform than before. Dean was waiting on a call from another contact, having followed up one of his sparse leads. It was frustrating how little there was to treat death spells.

A look at the clock told Dean that Sam had been under for about an hour – his little chat with Castiel hadn't taken as long as he'd thought.

_His love for you will be his undoing_. The words kept spinning in his head, taunting him with their concealed meaning. And what the hell did Cas mean about Sam knowing that already?

Exhaling irately, Dean moved to Sam's bed, deciding it was time to get him up for another round of heather – they needed as many minds on this thing as they could. There had to be another way, and they were damn well going to find it; Sam wasn't dying and he wasn't having his soul trapped until Judgment Day.

"Sammy, wake up, bro." Dean pushed at his shoulder. Sam didn't move. A shot of adrenaline hitting him quick, Dean moved a hand to Sam's throat. Still a pulse, still breathing. His hand slid to Sam's forehead, which turned out to be hotter than he'd like.

That got a reaction from Sam. He was up in a flash and Dean suddenly found himself slammed against the wall, a forearm pressed against his throat so tight that his feet nearly left the carpet. Sam's eyes were hard and unfocused, his mouth pulled into a snarl. A sickening sense of déjà vu twisted Dean's gut. But this time there were no yellow eyes.

Dean coughed and tried to talk him down. "Hey, Sam, it's me. Easy, kiddo," he managed to get out.

The iron left Sam's eyes and be blinked a couple times as if trying to orient himself. "Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean choked.

Sam immediately backed off, shuddering as he stepped away. "Sorry, I didn't… Sorry, man."

Nodding, Dean rubbed briefly at his throat, but let his hand drop when Sam's face fell with guilt. "It's fine, just uh…" He shook his head in slight amazement. "Dude, I've never seen you up and ready for a fight like that. Like, not ever. And now, with..." he waved a hand vaguely toward the curse symbol on the wall.

To Dean's surprise, Sam looked even guiltier. His eyes narrowed slightly. "You okay?"

Sam sighed. "You ask me that a lot, man."

"That's because it doesn't look like you're okay."

"Well, I'm fine. As soon as we break this curse, anyway."

"You didn't have any dreams you want to talk about?" Dean asked, the possibility hitting him quickly. The look on Sam's face told him he was right. "What was it?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam backed away farther and dropped onto the end of his bed, his shoulders shifting forward into a hunch. "Nothing. Just…it was back before Castiel pulled you out." He gave a grim smile, not looking at Dean. "Not good times. And that," Sam waved vaguely to the wall, "I had to be on my guard with you gone. For a second I forgot… it felt like back then." The last words were almost whispered, sounding painful.

Dean didn't want to ask, but he had to know. "What about Ruby?"

Sam's head tilted up a bit. "What about her?"

"Sounded like she watched your back pretty well." He worked hard to keep any hint of jealousy out of his voice. The thought of that snake anywhere around his little brother made his blood boil.

A shrug of the shoulders was about all the answer Dean got. "Not really." When Dean didn't look like that was enough, Sam scooted farther back on the bed, one hand going out to catch the comforter. He waved Dean off when he tried to help. "She didn't patch me up or anything, really. I was alone most of the time; but she made sure I stayed alive."

The bitter gratefulness in Sam's voice wasn't something Dean liked to hear. At the same time, a flare of irritation started up at Sam's usual nebulous answer. A sudden impulse seized him. "Anyone ever tell you I'd be the death of you?"

Sam blanched, shock etched like lightening across his features. "What?"

Even as he'd said the words, Dean had been preparing to back off and leave it alone, knowing Sam would never answer. He'd expected slight surprise followed by crappy lying skills, not this total jarred expression. Whatever he'd said, it struck some kind of nerve.

"Uh, no. Why?" Sam backpedaled.

Dean's tongue stuck to his throat. Sam was lying through his teeth. But why? "Nothing. No reason. Hey, you thirsty or anything? You should take some more heather; don't want a repeat."

"Joy," Sam grumbled, getting to his feet with a wince of pain.

Curbing his instinct to help, Dean let Sam get the heather and water on his own, watching as his giant of a brother downed the stuff and then stood still, as if afraid moving would make things worse.

Longing landed heavily on Dean, nearly crushing him into the ugly carpet. What he would give to go back to the days when all they did was hunt monsters and save people. God, had it ever really been that simple?

As he watched his brother weave on his feet, a feeling pulled at Dean's mind. Suddenly he wanted to know exactly what Sam had done while he had been gone, what exactly he'd tried to get Dean back, and how deep Ruby had sunk her claws into Sam. He had to know.

"Sam."

The shaggy head turned toward him, pale face showing off dark smudges under tired eyes. "Huh?" He looked guarded, recognizing Dean's tone. He was going to lie again, and Dean felt like vomiting; he was losing him.

The words died in his throat. "Nothing."

x.x.x.x.x

Dean's eyes snapped open at the prickles of pain in his cheek. He lifted his head from the keyboard, blearily looking over the screen full of gibberish he'd typed out with his forehead. Had he fallen asleep? The answer seemed to be yes. Dammit, he didn't have time for that crap. Turning in his chair to check on Sam, Dean realized he also had a crick in his back. Friggin' business as usual there.

"Sam?" Twisting to get a look at his brother, Dean was met with the sight of an empty, mussed motel bed and no little brother. Whipping around to face the bathroom, he found that it was empty as well. "Damn it, Sam," he growled, up from his seat before he realized he'd moved. Just once he'd like to wake up with Sam safe in his bed. Was that too freaking much to ask? When he found the kid, he was going to those giant industrial staples to pin his brother to the freaking bed.

Striding to the front door, Dean pulled out his phone and hit Sam's speed dial. It went straight to voicemail. Cursing, Dean pulled the door open and stepped out into the fading light of day. The Impala sat silently, gleaming black in the orange sunlight. Sam couldn't have gone that far, then. Dean turned left and right, trying to decide which way Sam was likely to have gone in his condition.

"…yeah, I've got it."

Dean's head snapped in the direction of the familiar voice, his legs already carrying him around the corner. Sam was standing with his shoulders hunched, back leaning against the side of the motel, his phone cradled to his ear with one pale hand.

"Yeah, the sigil from…okay. Right. Thanks, Bobby. We'll see you when you get here." Sam ended the call, staring into nothing before turning his head toward Dean. He looked awful. "Just talked to Bobby," he said conversationally, "he gave me the specifics for the ritual. He should be here in a few hours."

"Sam…"

"Don't."

Features hardening, Dean strode forward and put a hand on Sam's arm. "Thanks again for the note. Really helped when I woke up to find I was all by my lonesome."

"Needed some air. Deathbeds aren't all they're cracked up to be, man," Sam said with a quirk of his mouth.

"You'd get a lot more air if you'd just sit down and help me find a way out of this," Dean shot back, pulling some of Sam's weight onto himself as he helped his brother walk back to their room. Sam's lack of complaint was a testament to how bad things were getting. Both of them had the damnable Winchester tendency of joking when their own life hung in the balance. It was whole different game if the other brother was in danger; then humor had no part.

"Already have a way out. Bobby'll be here in a few hours with the stuff we need."

"Sam, no—"

Suddenly jerked to a rough stop, Dean found himself face-to-face with his brother. God, he looked like death warmed over. Swallowing hard, Dean tried to take hold of Sam again, but the younger man pulled away.

"Have you changed your mind? Are you going to be rational and get out before this thing blows up?" Sam demanded, standing straighter than he had since the curse hit.

"Like hell."

"Then I'm doing the ritual, Dean. You're not dying for me and you're not dying because of me. You're not gonna die, period." Neither one pointed out the similarity between those words and the ones spoken just before Dean had been dragged to Hell. "This time we do it my way."

"So either I leave you here to die alone or I sit on my ass and watch you kill yourself? Can't do that, Sam."

"It's not your choice."

Gazes locked in challenge, neither looked away.

"We don't know what this is going to do, Sam. It could—"

"Save your life?" Sam interrupted sharply.

Just as Dean was about to retort, Sam suddenly gave a cry of pain and clutched at his chest with shaking hands. He coughed, blood welling at his lips and dripping slowly from his nose. Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him close, one arm wrapped firmly around his brother's waist. He set off at as brisk a pace as possible, cinching Sam closer as he went.

The second they walked through the door, Sam gave an unexpectedly violent tremble, grasping at his throat. He couldn't breathe.

"No you don't, you son of a bitch," Dean snarled, pulling Sam into the room with him, "You're not getting my brother."

Laying Sam on the bed and trying not to panic at the slight blue tint his mouth had taken, Dean darted a hand out to grab the bag of heather. Dean hooked a finger in his brother's mouth and opened it, peering inside to make sure it wasn't his throat that had closed up. It was clear – the curse was attacking his lungs. He forced the heather down Sam's throat, and he choked for a second, but it went down. Dean put a hand on the back of Sam's neck as he sat up and sucked in a breath.

"It's okay, I've gotcha, it's okay, Sammy." Dean murmured the words automatically as he pressed the pads of his fingers to Sam's wrist. His pulse was weak and quick. Morbidly, he feared the time he would check for a heartbeat and wouldn't find one. He knew he wouldn't survive that.

"Guess…guess we waited too long for the dose, huh?" Sam struggled to say, trying for a grin that ended up a pained wince.

And suddenly Dean was the one who couldn't breathe, dread kissing his throat with cold lips. It hit him that he was watching his baby brother die. Something feral ripped through his chest and he fought down a scream that clawed viciously at his throat. Locking his jaw, he forced himself to let go of Sam as his fists clenched into wads of iron.

"Dean?"

God, Sam's voice was weak.

"Yeah?" Quiet, like he wasn't ready to rip something apart.

"What's wrong?"

Dean glares at him. What's wrong? Seriously? Instead, he said, "How's your throat."

He shrugged. "Air goes in and out okay. Not sure I can ask for much more than that right now, but…"

Dean scooted closer to Sam, their hips and legs touching lightly. He opened his mouth to ask if Sam needed anything. "How the hell could you ask me to leave?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it.

Sam blinked at him. He scowled. "Because it's the right thing, Dean."

His anger was back in a flash, this time all directed at Sam. "Leaving my brother to die is the right thing?" he growled.

"In this case, yeah, it is," Sam snipped.

"And why is that?" Dean demanded scathingly.

"I figure it's my turn to die for our insane crusade. Can't leave the world without a Winchester, can we?" Sam bit back. Another cough raked through his lungs.

"What the hell? Is this crap about my deal again? For God's sake, Sam—"

"This isn't about paying you back, Dean. It's not about the deal, okay? This—" Sam choked as a cough caught him by surprise, burning as it came up. He swallowed twice, his jaw tight. "Look, at least one of us should survive this thing. Obviously it's not gonna be me, so—"

"If it was me, would you leave?" Dean interrupted sharply.

Sam froze, his eyes dark with pain. For a moment, Dean regretted making his brother relive losing him, but damn it, the kid had to see what he was asking Dean to do.

"No, I wouldn't." Unexpectedly, Sam smiled, blood coating some of his teeth. "But now that the smarter brother's back in town, things'll get done right, eh?"

Torn between equally strong desires to viciously strangle or hug his brother close to him, Dean settled on a glare and lending a hand to help Sam sit up straighter in the bed when he struggled to breathe. "I'm not going anywhere, Sam."

"You're afraid to die, Dean." The words were soft, not intending to deliver a swift kick to the gut. But Dean felt it nonetheless.

"Most people are, Sam," he shot back, easing his brother back onto a couple pillows. The muscles trembled lightly beneath his fingers. His hands ached to patch his brother up, something they had done for as long as he could remember.

Wincing as he relaxed his back and chest, Sam rested his shoulder against Dean's. "You're afraid to go back, and I get it, man. But you're not going. It's kind of a good thing, Dean. No more kamikaze stunts." Sam swallowed the words that longed to follow – he wanted to assure Dean that he wouldn't let him die, and that nothing bad would happen today. But he didn't think Dean would believe him this time, not after Sam had failed his brother so horrifically.

Dean scoffed at him. "I never did anything even close to kamikaze." He shot his brother a quick grin. "I was more like a ninja; you know, stealthy as the night."

Unable to help himself, Sam laughed and immediately regretted it, feeling as though he was about to hack up a lung or a kidney. Dean's hand was at his back, offering warm reassurance and balance as Sam continued to cough forcefully enough that he feared the muscles in his back would snap. When he'd finally regained control, he deftly twisted away from Dean's touch, not missing the look of hurt that flashed across his brother's face.

It was for the best, Sam told himself wearily, Dean wouldn't be able to save him in the end, and Sam didn't want him to believe he could. That only led to disaster after disaster for his brother, and this time he would stop it before it started.

Before he could protest, Dean's hand was on his forehead, his touch firm and daring him to protest. Sam held still. Dean's hand moved gently from his forehead to the back of his neck, cool and comforting against Sam's skin that felt stretched too tight over his bones. An automatic rush of endorphins leaked through his system; it was a reaction he'd long had to Dean. Having his brother around had, for years, meant safety. His body remembered what his mind refused to.

The sudden loss of Dean's touch was like punch, and Sam had to struggle to conceal just how unsteady he was without it. Dean stood and moved across the room. Sam closed his eyes and let his head tilt forward, aches springing up in more places than he wanted to count.

"Here."

Sam looked up and found a glass of water held out to him along with a small pile of heather. He took both, downing the heather and then chased it with the water. The glass was immediately removed from his hand. Sam wanted to protest that he could get those things for himself, but the reality was that soon wouldn't be able to. He mumbled a quick "Thanks" before picking up the book he'd been flipping through.

Dean didn't react to his thanks as he set the glass on the nightstand and walked a few feet away. Sam knew why; they had never thanked each other for that kind of thing before. Taking care of one another was just something they did – it required no verbal gratitude. But he wanted Dean to know it was different now, that Sam could handle things himself and that Dean didn't have to give everything for him anymore.

He had changed in those four months after Dean's death – he was a different person, and he was okay with that. But it unbalanced Dean, he knew, and they were trying to get to know one another all over again. The only problem was that part of who they had become included secrecy, and Sam clung to his secrets like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood.

Before it had been easy, natural for them to know almost everything about the other person; now…now it was different. Everything different, and Dean wanted it to be the same. Now, Sam couldn't let him know everything – this time he would protect him. Sharp-edged guilt wedged itself deep in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He'd never, ever wanted to hurt Dean. And yet that was exactly what was happening.

Sam could practically hear Dean's thoughts; his brother was frustrated and didn't understand Sam pushing him away. The big idiot probably thought there was something he could have done to stop it. That thought softened Sam just enough to decide he should ease up a bit.

He tried hard not to think about what Dean had said earlier. _Has anyone ever told you I would be the death of you?_ One terrifying thought had flashed through his head – the Trickster. How had Dean heard anything about that? He still didn't know about the extra six months Sam had spent with Dean dead. The sad thing about it was that those months had been better than the four with Dean in Hell; in those six months, Sam had had a shred of hope.

Dean's voice startled him slightly; he'd forgotten anyone else was there. "I'm going to get some things from the car for the ritual. Bobby should be here in a couple hours." Dean didn't look at Sam when he spoke, his back turned.

Sam stared in shock for a moment. "Yeah, okay."

Surprise still tingling in his arms, Sam watched as Dean moved toward the exit. Sam couldn't believe it would be that easy, that Dean would just let him do the ritual. But Dean's face was so closed of that Sam couldn't read him. A strong need to keep Dean around hit him hard.

"Hey, Dean?" he called out, hating how his voice sounded slightly panicked.

Dean halted his walk to the door, turning slightly to watch Sam out of his eye's corner. "Yeah?"

"Just…don't be gone long, okay?" Sam said in a small voice. No matter how he might act, he still needed his brother. God, did he need his brother. Even if it was just to be in close proximity. If he couldn't see Dean, he couldn't protect him. He pushed away the small voice that suggested he might need his brother to feel safe, too.

"I won't. Get some rest, Sammy." With that he was out the door. The latch caught with a click, and Sam was alone.

x.x.x.x.x

Dean's stride was slow and measured on the way to the Impala. The car sat as it had before, bathed in the light from the dying sun and coated in the evening. Feeling a pang, Dean rested a hand on it when he drew close.

It had remained the one absolute constant in his life; it had been with him when his brother left for Stanford, when his father took off to chase the Demon, when Sam had gone missing – twice – and when Dean had come back from the dead. Other than the iPod abomination, Sam had cared for Dean's baby with strict precision. Dean only wished Sam had done the same with himself.

A movement to his right alerted Dean to the presence of another person. Turning, he saw a middle-aged man carrying a map. The guy was hurrying toward Dean, confusion etched onto his face. Great, a lost tourist looking for directions. Like Dean didn't have enough to deal with without adding a directionally challenged dude looking for some comic convention.

"Need something?" Dean asked gruffly, facing the guy.

"Erm, yes," the guy said, his voice a high, nasal squeak, "Can you tell me how to reach the highway from here? My wife and I are on vacation." The guy gestured vaguely behind him, indicating the room next to the one Dean shared with Sam. Huh. He hadn't heard any fun activities going on through the thin motel walls; must not be that great of a vacation.

The guy glanced around quickly before offering Dean an apologetic smile. "This isn't exactly the kind of place we wanted to stay."

"Yeah, I hear you." God, did he ever. A sudden urge to return to Sam gripped Dean, only worsening his irritation with the tourist.

"So, uh…" The guy moved toward the Impala and laid his map out on the hood. Dean winced as the guy's hands touched his baby, resisting the urge to lay him out. Now was not a good time for someone to push his buttons, and some stranger around his car was definitely a trigger.

Suppressing a sigh, Dean moved forward and took a look at the map, his mind still back with his brother. "Uh…" The map was upside down. "Buddy, I think you've got—"

A hot prick on his neck had Dean's instincts screaming loudly. He whipped around and was faced with the vicious grin on the tourist's face as he cast aside a syringe. When he spoke, his voice had smoothed out and was no longer nasal.

"This would have been so much easier if you'd just let your brother die," the guy said.

The skin of his face began to pull and pinch oddly, the flesh wriggling sickly over his bones. When it settled he winced and rubbed a hand over one cheek. "Appearance spells are easy enough, but they're hell when they wear off," he said smugly.

Dammit, Dean knew that voice. "Jeremy," he snarled.

Dean made to lung at him but didn't get far, suddenly finding his limbs were impossibly heavy. The world began to spin slowly as rage fogged his brain. He felt himself tip and begin to fall, his body powerless to stop it.

Jeremy smirked. "Watch your head."

Dean dropped.


	4. Chapter 4

Whew, this took a lot longer to post than I expected. I don't like it when I have to wait for a story, so I don't like to make others wait, but stuff happens. So here we go, the last chapter.

* * *

**Before…**

_A hot prick on his neck had Dean's instincts screaming loudly. He whipped around and was faced with the vicious grin on the tourist's face as he cast aside a syringe. When he spoke, his voice had smoothed out and was no longer nasal._

_"This would have been so much easier if you'd just let your brother die," the guy said._

_Damn it, Dean knew that voice. "Jeremy," he snarled._

_Dean made to lung at him but didn't get far, suddenly finding his limbs were impossibly heavy. The world began to spin slowly as rage fogged his brain. He felt himself tip and begin to fall, his body powerless to stop it._

_Jeremy smirked. "Watch your head."_

_Dean dropped._

**Now…**

The minutes stretched and bent until Sam was sure time wasn't really passing, more convinced that it was just going in a big, stupid circle. He flipped another page in his book, not really reading any of the words his eyes skimmed over. He was trying to figure out why he felt so uncomfortable, besides the life-threatening curse on him. Unease whispered delicately in his ear, sending a chill through his bones. He looked around the room, eyes landing on the big red symbol over the gnarly wallpaper; he shifted and looked away.

A glance at the clock let him know that Dean had been gone for too long. Sam frowned and swung his legs out of the bed, feeling his muscles constrict and threatened to cramp. They trembled as he stood, but he ignored it and made his way to the window.

Raising a hand to brush back the stained cream curtains, Sam peered out into the parking lot. The impala sat alone in her spot…_its_ spot, and Dean was nowhere to be seen. Sam's heart kicked hard – no, Dean wouldn't just leave him. Part of him wished for it, another part dreaded it. In the end, his knowledge of all things Dean Winchester prevailed; Dean wouldn't have left, especially without his baby.

Frowning, Sam walked to the door and yanked it open. "Dean?" No answer. Not a soul was around.

Taking another step forward, Sam swept the areas for clues as to where his brother had gone. _Probably just to get a drink or something, maybe even…_ Sam's thoughts died with a silent choke – his eyes caught on the small plastic syringe lying abandoned on the asphalt near the Impala. He strode quickly toward it and scooped it up in one clammy hand. His eyes slid closed for a moment, curses flying through his mind.

Paper on the hood of the car drew his attention. It was an atlas for…Georgia? Worry shouldered its way past Sam's mental walls and began wreaking havoc. Something had happened to Dean – Sam could feel it as clearly as the ground beneath his feet. His vision fuzzed and tipped to the left as he felt his brain melt and began to swish loudly in his skull; his body protested and clamored to rest. But at the moment he cared about only one thing – Dean was gone, and Sam hadn't saved him.

Clenching the syringe in his fist, Sam hurried back to the motel room and snatched his phone off the table. He hit Bobby's number and waiting impatiently for the older hunter to pick up. As soon as he heard the click of the call being answered, he spoke. "Bobby, it's Sam. Dean's gone; I need to find him."

_"What d'ya mean 'gone'? Did he…?"_ Bobby's voice was dubious and surprised.

"No, no, he didn't leave me here," Sam said, convinced that was the truth, "I think…Bobby, I think someone got him. Maybe the guy who cast the curse, maybe something else, but I need to get to him. What's the fastest locating spell you know?" Sam was banking on the hope that if it was Jeremy who had taken Dean that he didn't know enough about magic to block locating spells.

For a moment Sam thought Bobby was going to ask if he was _sure_ Dean hadn't just stepped out for a minute. Or maybe point out that Sam was quickly approaching obsolescence for rescues.

_"Gimme a minute, kid," _was the actual response.

Sam responded affirmatively and let out a quiet breath of relief; he didn't have time to fight with Bobby. Besides, something told him the older man knew there was nothing he could do to stop Sam, and he would be right.

_"Alright. You got candles?"_

"Yeah." Sam reached for the bag of supplies at the end of his bed. Face grim, he jerked it up onto the comforter and unzipped it. "We need to hurry."

x.x.x.x.x

_Wake up…_

_…Come on, Winchester…_

Dean groaned, swallowed, felt like he'd just been hit by a truck. He blinked blearily in the florescent lights, his pupils working hard to adjust. A dark blob moved in front of him, shifting and swirling as his vision gradually returned. He shouted and jerked back as he saw it was a face inches from his own, the mouth open and leering – just like that freaking seahorse he'd smashed. "Holy crap," he hissed, his head swimming.

"That'll hurt for a while. You banged your skull pretty nice when you went down. I told you to watch it."

"Son of a—"

"Language, Winchester. Well, I suppose murderers don't care that God can hear them, do they?" The face moved back and forth, answering its own question. "No, they don't."

Head screaming in agony, Dean forced his eyes up and was once again face to face with… the tourist…Jeremy. Damn it. He'd let his concern for Sam overshadow his instincts – or perhaps they were already so wired that he hadn't noticed the bad vibe from the tourist guy, or Jeremy, or whoever. "What the hell? This part of your _vacation_?"

He grinned. "No, it's just a pit stop. You Winchesters are a pain in the ass – anyone ever tell you that?"

"Might have been mentioned once or twice." Dean quickly took stock of his situation. It looked like they were in the storage room of some abandoned shop, judging by the dusty boxes of chips and large jars of pickles that littered the room. A glance out a window let him know they were on an upper floor, second by the look of it. There was a door just beyond his captor, open to reveal a set of stairs the led down to who knew what. Dean was currently strapped to a chair, his arms twisted painfully behind him, ankles lashed to the chair legs. The chair was metal and infuriatingly sturdy. Crap.

Jeremy leaned close to Dean, sneering unpleasantly. "Always with the emotional barriers, eh? How does your brother like that? Does it make him feel safe, or does it make him close up? Is that why he doesn't want you touching him?"

Fury ripping through him, Dean barely thought before his head shot forward, cracking sharply against his captor's skull. Jeremy yowled and went down in a heap, one hand grasping at his injured head. He screamed insults as he scrambled back, eyes watering and blinking rapidly. Even as his own head throbbed, Dean grinned at him, slightly woozy but sharp enough to enjoy Jeremy's pain.

"I hope you left the heather with your brother," Jeremy spat, stumbling to his feet, blood dripping between the fingers over his head, "Kid won't make it much longer if you didn't. We'll find out soon enough, I imagine." Jeremy straightened and smiled menacingly at Dean, large teeth set in a pointed face. He looked nothing like his mousy brother.

"You stay the hell away from Sam," Dean growled. As Jeremy laughed, Dean took the opportunity to wiggle his knife in his sleeve; thank God he'd kept it on him. It was wedged painfully into his skin by the rope fused with his arm. He pushed it harder, ignoring the pain as it pinched and pulled but didn't budge.

"I don't have to go anywhere near him. His expiration date passed a while back – all we have to do now is wait. Then as soon as you're both dead, I can be with my brother."

Dean shot him a snide look. "Are we talking zombie action or plain old stick a gun in your mouth?"

Jeremy's face grew cold. Pain blossomed across Dean's cheek as a fist lashed at him, striking him just below one eye. He grunted and took the hit, seeing static fizzle in front of him. A hand curled into the collar of his shirt, jerking him roughly forward, but not close enough to deliver another head strike. Stale breath broke over his face. "Don't talk about my brother like that. I would never put him through that – I'm supposed to take care of him."

"Bang up job with that." A fist slammed into his head twice, both times sloppy hits driven by anger. They still hurt like hell. Dean took the shots and continued to work at the knife. It slid out another couple centimeters, dragging at his skin as it went. Damn, the guy tied knots like a marine.

Dean spit blood and rotated his jaw until he heard it crack. "So this is your big plan? Let Sam die and then let me die? Real brilliant. Only, we already found a way to break the curse."

"So I heard," Jeremy hissed, moving closer, "I've been listening to you make plans; I've heard you plotting to take revenge away from my brother. I won't let you. You have to pay for what you did to him."

"Your brother was a murderer, Jerry. All we did was stop him. He did the rest."

"Shut up!" Jeremy screamed, shoving Dean back. The chair rocked dangerously before slamming heavily back to the ground. "You can't lie to me; I know the truth. I've been with you the whole time. The walls of the motel are thin, Winchester."

Comprehension dawned quickly on Dean – Jeremy had been next door to them from the beginning, spying and stewing in his crazy juices, waiting to see if he had to take care of things himself; he'd been in Dean's reach the whole time. Murderous rage funneled through Dean's veins, coating his vision with crimson. He shoved harder at the knife, feeling his skin scrape and tear. The thing was practically cemented in place by the rope – already he couldn't feel his hands, his joints swelling.

"Yeah, well, then you know Sam already knows the ritual to stop this thing. He's probably broken it already." He prayed that was true. _Please let Bobby have made it okay._

"Really? Is that so? Because I don't think he's in any condition to perform that ritual alone. And I don't think your friend can make that good of time." Jeremy gave Dean a sneer look before continuing. "I checked into you Winchesters, you know. I know a lot about you. For example…" He strolled closer, hovering just outside of Dean's striking distance. "The things you'll do for your baby brother." He spat the last two words like they were venom. "Tell me, how's it been going with Sammy? I hear he doesn't want you around so much anymore. He doesn't think you can protect him anymore. And you can't, can you? Can't even break a little curse."

"Shut up," Dean growled.

"Doesn't matter now, I suppose. He can't last much longer, especially without help."

An image sprung unbidden to his mind, Sam lying alone in the motel room, those back-breaking coughs wracking his body and no one was there to help him. Dean shoved it away; his brother was more than capable, and he was as stubborn as their father.

And yet every big brother instinct inside of him screamed that something bad had happened. How long had he been unconscious, how long had Sam been alone? He needed to get free. If he couldn't get to Sam, if he couldn't see with his own eyes that his brother was still alive, he would lose his mind. And he didn't know how long the curse would take to take to him if something happened to Sam. Snarling, Dean waggled the knife hard and it slid forward just a bit more.

"Sam's stronger than you think," Dean snapped.

Jeremy's features twisted as he contemplated. "You're right, there's a chance he might survive. I thought he would come for you, but I imagine his own life is of greater importance at the moment. Murderers don't take care of their family, do they?" He shook his head. "No." His eyes raked up and down Dean's bound form, examining his options. "Even if he has broken the curse, he'll still be weak. I still have time to… Yes, much better to end it now. Then I can be going."

"Hey, hey, whoa." Dean strained to scoot back as Jeremy flipped open a switchblade, its wicked edge grinning at him in the florescent glow of the room.

"I'll kill you, and then I'll go back and kill him. Yes, a much better plan. Thank you, Winchester," Jeremy said with a smile. He advanced on Dean, aiming the blade at his throat. Dean struggled with the knife at his wrist – he wasn't going to be fast enough.

"Hey!"

The barked word was loud even in the pickle and chip padded room, surprising Jeremy into taking a step away from Dean as he whipped around. Striding across the floor was an extremely pale Sam holding a gun level with Jeremy's head. "Back the hell up," he snarled, moving closer to his brother.

Dean's heart hammered in his chest as he kept his eyes trained on Jeremy and watched Sam in his peripheral. Jeremy spread his arms away from his body, blood from his forehead sliding unheeded over his eyes, leaking red tears over his face. He was watching Sam as a snake would watch its prey; as if he'd like nothing better than to rip the flesh from his bones.

Slowly complying with Sam's order to back away, Jeremy's smile clung stiffly to his lips. "When is the last time you had some heather, Sam? Been about an hour, has it?"

Dean's heart clenched painfully.

"Shut up and move back. More." Sam gestured roughly with his gun as he inched nearer to Dean. Glancing at him quickly, he asked, "You okay, man?"

"Watch him, Sammy. He's a tricky bastard," Dean grumbled, still working at the knife near his wrist. He could barely feel it anymore, tactile abilities fleeing from his bloodless hands.

"Nasty curse, isn't it? Tell me, how much control do you actually have over your body? Nerves shutting down, are they?" Jeremy asked, pleased.

As if on cue, Sam's body gave a heavy shudder and the gun shifted a bit, moving to train center mass on its target. He opened his mouth to order Jeremy to back off farther, but a cough tore through his body and out his throat, blood flowing from broken vessels.

"Sam!" Dean barked in warning.

Jeremy darted forward in Sam's moment of weakness. Pain slashed across the back of Sam's wrists, followed by a sharp hit that sent his gun skittering toward the door and down the stairs, clattering loudly as it fell. A fist slammed into his side, driving the air from him. He swung an arm up to block the next hit and the next, his body on fire. He fell back as Jeremy assaulted him mercilessly, insanity and grief fueling the incompetent sorcerer.

His muscles were shredding under his skin – Sam was going to lose, he could feel it; he didn't have the strength. Until he took a glance toward Dean and found his brother's gaze full of enraged terror, his shoulders straining as he fought against his binding. A red mark stained his neck, the mark from the syringe.

Dean was bloody and battered, and it was Jeremy's fault. Sam let his anger burn its way through his limbs. He yelled in rage and thrust forward, catching Jeremy around the middle. They crashed to the ground and a lance of pain imbedded itself in Sam's chest, wedged tight between his ribs.

He cried out as his muscles locked him into place. A foot connected with his side, causing his vision to recede at the edges. _No_. He couldn't lose consciousness; he couldn't leave Dean to die. His leg lashed out and he felt his heel connect powerfully with Jeremy's kneecap. Jeremy screamed stumbled back, clutching at the lump of dislocated bone halfway up his thigh.

Pain fogged Sam's mind as he tried to roll to his feet. He staggered up, blinking to clear his vision.

"_Sam!_"

Cruel arms clenched around his middle and _pushed_. Sam felt himself falling, weightlessness sucking at his stomach. Then he came crashing down on the stairs, the unyielding wood crushing his body from every angle as he tumbled down.

x.x.x.x.x

"SAM!"

Dean watched in helpless horror as Jeremy shoved at Sam, sending him into the gaping hole of the stairwell. Dean could hear Sam's body being ground up by the stairs as he fell, every sound biting deep. "No!" Dean shouted, yanking fiercely at his restraints. Slick blood flowed over his hands, and he felt the wetness creep up his sleeves. He rubbed his wrists frantically against the ropes, the blood lubricating his knife. Finally, it slipped into his numb hand, nearly dropping to the floor. He held on with all the strength that his rage and terror afforded him.

Breathing heavily, Jeremy limped over to his blade. He lifted it with a trembling hand, the other clutching at the sickly bulge of his relocated kneecap. "Your brother shouldn't be able to move that quickly, not with this curse." Blood dribbled from his chin, ignored completely. "If I didn't want you both dead, I might respect you."

"You son of a bitch." Working faster on the ropes, Dean swung his head toward his approaching captor, hate clogging his heart. "I'll kill you."

Fear raked painfully across his skin, and Dean couldn't keep his eyes off the stairs. Over and over, one thought raced through his mind, repeating in time to the knife being pulled across his flesh. _Watch after Sam, protect Sam. Watch after Sam, protect Sam._ It was rusty, unused for some time, but still there, just as strong as ever.

"No, you won't." Jeremy stopped in front of him, switchblade raised threateningly. Dean couldn't cut the ropes fast enough. "Goodbye, Winchester." The blade came down.

Two shots rang out in the room. Jeremy jerked sickeningly, his eyes widening in shock. Blood flared from two new holes in his chest, painting his shirt blue-red. With an enraged gurgle, he fell forward, lunging for Dean's chest. Another two shots exploded, hitting Jeremy square in the back. Jeremy's aim veered to the side and the switchblade buried itself two inches inside Dean's shoulder. He cried out and twisted away from the pain. Jeremy fell bonelessly to the floor, his skull cracking heavily against the boards. Blank eyes stared fixedly at nothing, and Jeremy's heart gave one dull thump before it stilled.

Dean's eyes shot up, searching frantically. They locked on Sam's bruised and bloody figure leaning against the doorjamb. The younger Winchester's shoulders heaved as he struggled to breathe, his eyes fogged over. Dean shouted wordlessly as Sam tipped forward, the gun falling from his hands. He hit the floor without making a sound, unmoving.

Snarling, Dean ripped furiously at the fraying ropes tied around his wrists. They snapped. Reaching up to his shoulder, he gritted his teeth and yanked the knife out of the wound, choking on a cry of pain. Ignoring the lack of feeling in his fingers, Dean bent and sliced through the restraints on his ankles, not even feeling the cuts that his wide swipes were making in his shins. He fought a losing battle against his panic as he shot across the room, his hands seeking his brother.

"Sam! Sammy, hey, come on." Sam's body was chilled in his arms. "Please, God." He fumbled for Sam's throat, fingers pressing into his flesh. _Please, no_. At first he felt nothing, trembling too hard to locate the throb of his brother's heart. But then, there it was. It was weak and palpitating, but it was there. A sob ripped itself from his throat as he gathered his brother close, his forehead resting on Sam's hair.

"De…"

Dean's head flew up. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes opened slowly, painfully against the light. "You…'kay?"

His brother was dying in his arms and he wanted to know if Dean was okay. He was so freaking far from okay… "Where's the heather? Did you bring it with you?" Dean demanded.

"Pocket," Sam croaked.

"That's my boy," he murmured absently.

Not pausing to ask which pocket, Dean searched them all until he found the packet of heather wedged into the back of Sam's jeans. He ripped it open and poured some onto his palm. Shifting Sam so that he leaned back against Dean's chest, he eased his brother's jaw down and dropped the heather inside. Sam worked to swallow it, Dean tipping his head back a bit to make it easier.

"Can't 'wallow…" Sam mumbled around the plant.

"Have to," Dean said, casting around for something liquid. There was nothing – no pop, no juice, not even alcohol. What kind of crap establishment was it?

"Can't…" Sam began to cough the heather out of his mouth, bits of it hitting the floor with soft thunks.

"Damn it," Dean hissed, "Hang on Sam."

Gently, he shifted his brother so that he was leaning against the wall. Reaching out, he snagged a jar of pickles and broke the seal, popping the lid off and throwing some of the sopping vegetables out. "Open up for me, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widened in disgust, but he did as he was told. Dean poured some of the pickle juice into his brother's open mouth. Sam swallowed convulsively, choking, but the pickle juice and heather went down, mostly.

Dean tossed the jar aside, the pale yellow liquid traveling in ripples out over the floor, and drew Sam back against him, tilting him forward so he could spit out residual juice and blood. "Just hang on, Sammy. We've gotta get you back to the motel to do that ritual you wanted," Dean murmured to him. Even as the thought of the ritual drove dread through his spine, Dean knew there was no other option now. If they didn't try it, Sam would die anyway.

Struggling in his brother's grasp, Sam turned surprisingly sharp eyes on him. "You got…stabbed, Dean."

"What? Oh." Dean glanced down at his shoulder, aware for the first time that it burned like crazy. "Yeah. Let's get you up, okay?"

Sam nodded slowly, his face becoming impossibly paler as his eyes slid closed.

"Hey, Sammy, stay with me, little brother," Dean beseeched. He cupped the side of Sam's face, watching as the younger man's features relaxed the smallest bit. Dean's jaw muscles jumped. He had to get Sam back to the motel.

How the heck was he going to get him down the stairs?

"Sam, I need you to hang onto me, okay? Can you do that?"

Mumbling something incomprehensible, Sam pried his eyes open and lifted an arm to drape over Dean's neck.

"Okay, just hold on. I'm gonna get you out of here, Sam." Dean wrapped an arm firmly around Sam's waist and pulled him tightly against his side. Taking a quick breath to steel himself, Dean pushed hard against the floor, pulling Sam with him as he began to rise. Sam worked with him, and soon they were vertical once again.

"Let's take it slow. Walk with me, Sam. That's it," Dean encouraged, cinching Sam closer to him. He moved forward at an agonizingly slow pace, but there was no help for it.

x.x.x.x.x

Blood from Dean's wrists had smeared the steering wheel with brown, a fact that in another situation would have sent him into a tailspin. Now he barely noticed the ugly tearing around both wrists that were leaking blood onto his car, his focus divided entirely between Sam and the road, with just a little too much devoted to Sam.

He glanced over at his unconscious brother. Sam was wedged into the front seat, having deliriously refused to sit in the back, away from Dean. So much for Sam's new "Don't touch me, I'm just bleeding out" routine.

The Impala ate up the road as fast as Dean could feed it. Glad for the nearly empty streets, Dean opened her up and blew past the landscape. The convenience store he'd been taken to was only about twenty minutes from the motel. He tried not to think about how Sam had gotten there. He'd taken the Impala, and that meant he'd had to drive in his current state. The thought sent tendrils of fear skimming along Dean's ribs.

Not for the first time in the last day, Dean wondered why Sam had been struck by the curse first. Why had it singled him out? The creator had intended it to be the end to her unfaithful husband, so how did it apply to them? Consciously not looking at his brother, Dean tried not to think about the implications – that maybe Sam was doing something he didn't know about, and that maybe it was freaking dangerous or even demonic. But no, his brother had told him he was done with that, and that was good enough for Dean. It was.

Sam made a pained sound, tensing visibly. Dean rested a hand against his arm and Sam calmed down, a frown tugging at his mouth. Dean decided that _if_ Sam was doing something stupid, it could wait until his head wasn't on the chopping block.

Ten minutes later Dean was pulling into the parking lot of the motel, finally starting to come down from the adrenaline-fueled rage at Jeremy. He started in surprise – a familiar truck was sitting outside their room. Bobby was there. The tension inside Dean uncoiled just a little; if anyone would be able to help, it would be Bobby.

As soon as the Impala was parked outside the room, the door swung open and Bobby stepped out, his continence serious. Dean gave him a nod and killed the engine. Movement next to him let him know Sam was awake – he murmured something unintelligible.

"What?" Dean turned to him.

"Bobby. He's…here."

"Yeah, he is. Just hang on, okay? We're gonna fix this."

Sliding out of the car, Dean hurried to the passenger side and opened the door. His heart caught in his throat at the sight of his brother; they didn't have a lot of time. Hooking an arm around Sam's back, he gently drew the mammoth little brother out of the Impala. Sam leaned into him as they straightened, his head rolling weakly against Dean's shoulder.

"Sorry," he croaked.

"For what?" Dean asked gruffly, grateful that Bobby opened the door wide for them to come through, grateful he didn't try to take Sam from him. Dean didn't think he could handle someone else holding Sam at that moment – he needed to be near his brother.

"Fer…leavin' you…"

"You're not going anywhere, Sam. Trust me, okay? I've got you." Sam's body was now too warm against him, and he wheezed every time he sucked in a breath. Sam mumbled something that sounded like "I do," or perhaps "moose shoe," and Dean led him slowly into the motel room, time rushing loudly past his ears; they needed to hurry.

"Get 'im inside," Bobby said, quickly closing the door once the brothers crossed the threshold. "On the bed."

"Come on, Sammy." Dean lowered his giant onto the mattress, muscles straining with the weight.

"Dean…"

"Yeah, Sam, I'm here."

"You…do the…"

"I will, Sam." Dean had no idea what his brother was talking about, but it didn't seem to matter; he was slipping away. "Bobby." He locked gazes with the older hunter, noting the fear reflected there. "Will this work?" It needed to work.

"There's no other choice, kid. It God damn well better work." Bobby took a step forward, an old book balanced in his hands. "Out of the circle, or this'll all go to crap."

Dean looked down. He was standing on the edge of a white circle adorned with several sigils. The thing went all the way around the bed, enclosing Sam inside. Bobby had known how bad things would be and had acted accordingly. Dean took a step back, something in him cracking when he moved away from Sam. "Do it."

"No." The word was a mere gasp. Sam's eyes flew open, his hand reaching blindly.

Unable to stop himself, Dean stepped forward and let Sam grab his hand in a bruising hold. "Sammy, we're doing the ritual. It'll be over in a second, kiddo."

Shaking his head weakly, Sam pulled him closer, struggling to draw enough air for conversation. "Not…me."

"We don't got much time," Bobby said from behind Dean.

Dean nodded and started to pull back, but Sam's grip was surprisingly strong for a dying man.

"Dean…'s too late. You…do the ritual… for you…after…" Sam stopped, his chest jerking as a cough stole his voice.

"You'll be fine, Sammy. Let go."

Sam's eyes slid past him and searched desperately. "Bobby. Have to make…Dean okay…"

"I'll take care of it, Sam," Bobby rumbled.

"Damn it, no! Nobody's dying today. Sam, let go – you're not dying today." Dean pried his brother's fingers off of his hand with as much care as possible. Fighting every instinct in his body, Dean backed away and left Sam looking scared and helpless in the middle of the circle. He looked so young; Dean's heart nearly broke.

Latin began flowing swiftly from Bobby's lips, the words whispering of years long dead. And without really thinking about it, Dean silently said a prayer, willing to do anything. He watched avidly as Sam's breathing began to slow. His brother took a breath, and then another, the lengthening time in between them tying Dean's guts into painful knots. Three minutes later, Bobby's voice fell silent at the end of the spell.

Sam cried out, his back arching at an inhuman angle. His hands clenched tangled in the bedspread as he began to thrash in pain.

"Sam!" Dean rushed forward only to collide forcefully with an invisible wall. He stumbled back from the edge of the circle, dazed. A hand caught the back of his jacket, steadying him. "Damn it, Bobby! What the hell is that?"

"You have to wait 'til the spell's over. There ain't no going back from here." Bobby released him.

Dean's mouth set in a hard line. He turned back and watched helplessly as his brother continued to writhe. He had to make it, he _had_ to. Sam screamed again, his fingers grabbing uselessly at the bed, at his chest. He gave one final cry and then was still.

Powerless to stay away, Dean strode forward, one hand extended to check for invisible barriers. His fingers passed through the air without resistance, and he shot to Sam's side, falling to his knees at the edge of the bed. "Sammy? Hey, come on, bro. Open those pretty eyes for me, kiddo." For the thousandth time that day, Dean checked for Sam's pulse.

There was nothing.

Dean readjusted his grip, forcing himself to hold still and ignore the frantic pounding of his own heart. He pressed down on Sam's wrist and focused on finding a heartbeat so soft it could belong to a kitten. He didn't even get that. Shaking, he moved his hand to Sam's throat and found the same hollowness that his wrist had offered.

A wordless cry tore itself violently from Dean's throat. Or it might have been a whisper – he didn't know. All he could see or understand was that he had failed his brother again. Sam had been taken from him again, and Dean hadn't stopped it. Once again, he'd been two feet away, one second too late, and he had lost Sam.

Panic seared every inch of his skin as Dean leaped to his feet and pushed Sam's arms off his chest. Hands together, Dean started compressions at as rapid a pace as he felt safe. _…Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen._ He breathed into Sam, feeling his chest expand and deflate. He started again.

"Come on," he growled. _…twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen._ _Breathe. Breathe, damn it._ "Don't you do this, Sammy. Don't you dare do this."

Dean kept going, not pausing when his arms began to ach or when his chest felt like it was being pried open, his lungs set on cracking them. He kept pushing, kept breathing for Sam, kept working to save him. Nothing could stop him now, not even his body's screams of protest. His brother was going to live.

"Dean."

"No." He kept going, kept Sam's heart beating and his lungs expanding.

A hand on his shoulder jarred Dean from the nuclear world in which he now lived, where the only thing that was real was Sam not breathing, Sam dead in front of him. "_No!_"

Bobby backed off. Dean couldn't see him, didn't want to see him. The only thing he wanted to see was Sam inhaling. Adrenaline-fueled fear lent Dean strength and stamina, and he used it all, driven by need born of twenty-five years watching over his little brother. If Sam didn't make it…

Sometimes his need for Sam was so strong that he didn't know what to do with it. It would ball in his throat and block his breathing; it would pull at his ribs, it would pound inside his skull. Sometimes it got so strong, it felt as though he might be dying. He needed Sam where he could see him and check him over to make sure he was okay, or where he could help him if he was not alright. He just needed Sam. Because the bottom line was that he loved his brother and would do anything for him. Even now, even after Hell, after demon blood and death, Dean couldn't let his brother go.

"Breathe, Sammy, _please_." His brother's lips were turning blue, his skin dulling. What little hope Dean had kept alive began to sputter and die, drenched by acrid failure. "God. _Please_, don't take him away from me," he prayed wildly.

The body jerked roughly under his hands, dislodging his hold as Sam bucked against him and drew a breath. Immediately he started coughing hard enough to pull his back, but no blood flew from his mouth.

Relief screamed inside of Dean as he gathered his brother to him, tipping him forward. "Breath through it, Sam. Breath with me," he murmured into his brother's hair, only partly aware of what he was saying.

"I'll be damned," Bobby whispered.

Dean tightened his grip on Sam, one hand against his back as he continued to suck down air. After a few moments, Sam sagged against Dean's chest, his body trembling slightly. Dean's hand went to the back of his head, tangling in his hair as he held him close.

"You boys got some hell of an angel watchin' out for you," Bobby murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion.

As Sam's hacks began to quiet, he shook his head. "Not…mine. His…angel."

Reveling in the pound of Sam's heart against his body, Dean was inclined to agree. He scooted farther onto the bed, one hand still at Sam's back trying to soothe his brother's intermittent coughs. He felt Sam's body working, living, and he wasn't sure he'd ever find something better than that. A cold finger dug through his relief and traced the outline of his heart; that was the second time he'd had to watch Sam die. But he had him back, Dean told himself firmly, Sam wasn't gone this time; he hadn't failed.

Reaching for a glass of leftover water on the nightstand, Dean brought it to Sam's lips and slowly tipped it as his brother drank thirstily. When he'd had half the cup, Dean took it away and replaced it on the nightstand, ignoring the glare Sam tried to shoot him.

"Dean. You…okay?"

Looking down at his brother, Dean swallowed and nodded quickly. "Yeah, Sammy. I'm good."

"Look…like crap." A smile tugged at Sam's bloodless mouth.

"You're both idjits," Bobby grumbled from the end of the bed, his hands still clutching the spell, "For being dead set against living how your daddy lived, you both have his damned luck."

"Family trait," Dean said with a shaky grin.

Sam groaned. Two sets of eyes shot to him immediately, both looking for any sign of damage. Sam shook his head, one hand flailing dismissively. "Not the curse - heather's… a bitch."

The two older hunters visibly relaxed. Bobby nodded. "Should be outta your system in a while. Until then, you'll feel like sh—"

"Sam, you feel anything? You know, like it's still there at all?" Dean asked somewhat awkwardly. He still wasn't sure what he thought about the idea that Sam could _feel_ a hex bag or whatever kind of magic crap. Useful, but very weird. But it was Sam's kind of weird, he supposed.

Taking a second to self-assess, Sam finally shook his head. "Nah. Gone." His eyes shot to Dean, worry clear inside of them. "You?"

"I'm fine, Sam."

Sam snorted. "Wrists," he said pointedly, fumbling to find one of Dean's hands.

Moving them so Sam couldn't reach, Dean nudged him to stop. "Dude, I'm good. You're the one who choked up his kidney a minute ago."

"You were…drugged. Beat…you. _Stabbed_ you," Sam croaked, panic and anger edging his words.

Uncomfortable with both his brother and Bobby's sharp eyes watching him, Dean shrugged, aware of the pain in his shoulder. "Nothing I couldn't handle. That trip down the stairs you took was impressive, though."

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Sam mumbled something impolite and worked to lie down. Dean lowered him back onto the mattress and grabbed at the covers, drawing them up around Sam's chin. "I c'n do it," Sam grumbled, closing his eyes.

"Yeah, I know. But you don't have to." _Not while I'm here to watch your back._ Dean fought the urge to avert his eyes, but he couldn't seem to look away just then.

Sam's eyes opened to slits, and Dean could see the gratefulness in them – _I know_ – then, just as suddenly, sadness. Dean watched, confused, as Sam rolled over a bit and immediately fell asleep, one hand curling into the fabric of Dean's shirt. Not sure what he'd just seen, Dean shook it off and looked at the mess in the room. Candles were still burning, herbs were scattered, and there was too much blood for Dean's liking. Too much of Sam's blood.

"You stay with your brother, I'll take care of this," Bobby said firmly, "He'll wake up in a tizzy if you move. Just sit there and try not to do anything stupid for the next few hours."

Grateful, Dean moved back against the wall and rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby brushed off his gratitude and tossed Dean a blanket before hurriedly cleaning up the mess in the room. The last thing Dean saw before darkness swept over him was Bobby blowing out a candle and then swearing as hot wax splashed over his fingers.

x.x.x.x.x

Consciousness slammed into Dean with all the force of a jealous boyfriend – something he'd been hit by before – ripping sleep out from under him. He lurched to a sitting position, confused beyond belief. His vision swam as he glanced around the motel room, scrambling frantically to remember what had happened. Alarm rang through him and he whipped his head around to search for Sam. The other bed was empty. Just as panic began to settle in, Dean felt the rise and fall of a breathing body next to him.

Glancing down, the sight of his sleeping brother delivered a soft shock that rocked him into full wakefulness. Sam's skin had regained some color, and his breathing no longer seemed inhibited. The regular rhythm of blood pumping through his body could be felt through Sam's side that was pressed against Dean's hip.

Blinking, Dean was baffled as to how he'd gotten into a bed at all, let alone next to Sam. As unmanly and almost _chick flick_ as that might be, he couldn't bring himself to be irate just then. Maybe later, not so soon after Sam's sudden death. A soft pressure against his shoulder had him reaching for its source – a bandage met his probing fingers; someone had dressed his wound.

"It's 'bout time one of you idjits woke up. I ain't got the time to sit and watch you both snore through all hours of the day and night." Bobby's voice had its regular gravel, but the tone behind the words was weary and relieved.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair. "Yeah, sorry about that. I guess near death can take it out of a guy."

Bobby snorted. "There was nothin' 'near' about it," he said gruffly, "I got no clue what happened or how you brought him back, but divine intervention has crossed my mind once or twice since you both went under."

"It wasn't an angel, believe me, Bobby. They turned me down flat when I asked."

"Supposing their boss had something to do with it? Ever thought about that?"

Dean shook his head, determined not to go there. God, no God, whatever. All he cared was that he still had Sam – anything else could be left alone for a while. He managed a small smile. "You watched us sleep the _whole_ night? I'm flattered Bobby, but you know we don't swing that way."

Flatly ignoring Dean's joke, Bobby stared contemplatively at now snoring Sam, who appeared to be more an oversized six-year-old than bad ass hunter with demonic powers. Dean huffed – some evil demon leader.

"I don't wanna go post hoc ergo propter hoc on nobody's ass, but this seems damn near divine intervention to me."

As much as he didn't want to think about it, Dean knew what Bobby meant; he'd pleaded with God not to take his brother, and then Sam had come back to him. However, denial and rationality were still on his side.

"Whatever you say, Bobby." Dean groaned as he swung his legs out of the bed, his back cracking several times when he stretched it.

"What happened?"

Dean halted his stretching and looked up, confused. He followed Bobby's eyes to his shins and saw the bloodied cuts in the fabric of his jeans. "Uh, yeah. Had to get loose quick," he said, running a hand over the back of his neck, "It's fine." His tone left no room for argument; he didn't want to deal with anything just then.

Bobby took the hint. "You hungry, kid?"

Dean suddenly became aware of the food spread that was laid out on the small motel table. There were pancakes, sausage, eggs, and… "Oatmeal?" he asked.

"Don't give me that look. It clears the arteries," Bobby replied defensively.

"Right, the old person food of choice," Dean joked.

"You hungry or not?"

Nodding tiredly, Dean slipped out of bed and, with a lingering glance at Sam, joined Bobby at the table. He grabbed a paper plate and loaded it with everything but the oatmeal – he figured Sam could eat that when he woke up. The thought of his brother had him turning to check on him again, just in case. But Sam slept peacefully, sprawled over the mattress like he used to when he was a kid. Well, he was still a kid to Dean, but to the world… Geez, he'd grown up fast.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Yeah?" he asked around a bite of maple oatmeal.

Dean swallowed hard, trying to shake the image of Sam lying on the bed, his body still in death. "He's…he's okay now, right? I mean, this is over."

Bobby studied Sam closely for a moment, and then nodded. "It's over. Don't know about the ritual, but… The curse should be completely gone, if that's what you're askin'."

"Thanks…for everything. If you hadn't… Sam and I, we…"

"Don't strain somethin'. Besides," he said, waving his hand dismissively, "Family don't have to go through that crap. We both know where you'd both be without me." Bobby gave a half grin as he dug back into his warm breakfast cereal.

Unable to argue that point, Dean took a bite of his own food. He chewed slowly, eyes busy going from Bobby to Sam to his food and back again. It was true – they were a family. Maybe even more of one than Sam, Dean, and John had been, in some ways. As much as it pained him to think it, they all trusted each other more.

But their dad had done the best he could, and Dean would never take that for granted. Cold bastard or not, John was their father and they both loved him. But Bobby was there for them through everything since then, and that meant a helluva lot. Briefly, Dean wondered if Bobby was an honorary Winchester or if it would be safer for everyone if he and Sam were honorary Singers.

"Well, I should be gettin' back. Gotta get a translation for a friend of mine before his next hunt – the guy doesn't know Latin from Portuguese," Bobby said, drawing Dean out of his odd thoughts. Bobby glanced at Sam. "You call me when he's up. Shouldn't be any more problems, but I'll be back if I'm needed."

"I will. We'll see you soon, Bobby." Dean stood and allowed Bobby to pull him into a hug. After a couple slaps on the back, they let go.

Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Dean asked a question that had been bothering him since the ritual. "Bobby? When Sam…uh, when his heart stopped, was that because of the curse or…?"

Pausing for a moment, Bobby shook his head. "Hell if I know. Coulda been either, might have been neither one of 'em."

"So, he might be off the hook with the whole years as payment thing."

"Could be. Don't really know how the thing works for sure."

"But they didn't know about any real sort of resuscitation when it was created, so he could be fine," Dean pressed.

"It's possible," Bobby answered without much conviction. He huffed. "With you boys, not sure I'd say anything was completely impossible."

Dean grinned at him. "Damn straight."

Bobby snorted, gave him a nod and was out the door.

Two minutes later, the guttural growl of Bobby's old pickup truck faded quickly into the distance, and suddenly Dean found he wasn't hungry in the slightest. Pressing his fingers to his brow, Dean tried not to think about how much of their lives consisted of close calls. This one had been nasty.

Finally, unable to sit all the way across the room, Dean moved back to sit next to Sam, surreptitiously checking to make sure he was breathing okay. As the minutes dragged by, he found himself wondering why Sam had been so adamant not to be helped; it was irritating, but there had to be something behind it. He knew Sam had had a rough time while Dean had been gone, but this? It just didn't make sense.

He could understand Sam being more independent and having changed some, but he had the feeling something was underlying all the rest. He just didn't know what it was, and that was killing him. There had been a time when he'd known everything passing through his brother's head. At least, he thought there had been a time. Now he wasn't so sure.

If Dean was honest with himself, he knew exactly what Sam had been doing while Dean had been dead. He had been doing his own thing, the same thing he had been doing when he had gone to Stanford, lied to him about Azazel's blood and Lilith wanting him dead, and it was the same thing he was doing now, Dean suspected. He just hoped "Sam's own thing" wasn't something to do with a certain skanky demon.

Though he had no foundation for it, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that Sam was doing something he shouldn't be – call it brotherly intuition or some such crap. And if Sam hadn't quit whatever he was doing with his powers… With a sudden pressure in his chest, Dean realized with icy dread that there might be something from which he couldn't save his brother: Sam himself.

Over the past day, Sam hadn't been concerned for his own life. From ordering Dean to leave him and refusing most of his help, to his quick willingness to try a ritual that might kill him, Sam had let Dean know that his own life wasn't much of a priority.

_Can you say any different about yourself?_ a voice asked him. With a small tickle of fear at the back of his mind, Dean had to admit that yes, Sam had been right – Dean was afraid to die, to go back to Hell. So, what, now Sam was the one with a death wish? No, Dean wasn't sure he believed that, but something was sure going on.

Dean's eyes swept over the sleeping figure. In his sleep, Sam looked once again like the little Sammy he'd raised from six months to twenty-five years old. An old protectiveness and swell of pride inflated in Dean's chest. His Sam.

"What's going on in that freakish head of yours?" he asked softly, running a hand over his brother's forehead to clear away his bangs. "Whatever it is, Sammy, we're in this thing together."

Sam gave no answer.

x.x.x.x.x

The next morning, Sam was up and around with relatively minimal amounts of soreness. Most of it was in his chest from the bruises Dean had given him with his compressions. He's ribbed Dean good-naturedly about it and acted like his old self. It at once settled and unnerved Dean, who knew how well his brother could hide anything of importance. Sam had even wolfed down the oatmeal Bobby had left them, a sight that had disgusted Dean – why eat soggy grains when eggs and pancakes were available?

Dean couldn't even bring himself to be irritated when Sam insisted on cleaning Dean's wrists and shins, something Dean had neglected. He had shrugged it off; they would heal after a while, and he didn't want to think about it. Sam, however, had refused to leave it alone, practically dragging him to the bathroom with the first aid kit. Dean had thrown out some joke about Sam recovering suspiciously quick, and things had begun to settle back into normal. Half an hour later and they were packing up, ready to hit the road and follow it until something else sucked them into danger.

Grabbing the last of his meager wardrobe, Dean stuffed it into his duffel and gave the room a quick once over, just to be sure they weren't leaving anything of importance. However, he didn't want to stick around long enough to be questioned about the copious blood stains all over the room. He didn't want to see them himself, either.

"Dean."

He lifted his head toward Sam. "Yeah?"

Sam shifted slightly – it was the first uncomfortable, unnecessary move Dean had seen his brother make in a long time; it let Dean know that Sam was human, still his brother, and he clung to the sight like a drowning man to a raft.

"I just wanted to say…thanks."

"For getting your giant head off the chopping block? Routine, Sammy," Dean said, tossing his brother a grin.

Sam gave a wan smile. "Yeah, that too. But… you stayed, Dean. It was stupid, but… just, thanks for not…"

"Ditching your ass?" Dean supplied, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah."

The kid was thanking him for sticking around, for not abandoning him. Dean felt himself crack a little more under the weight of the thanks. Where the hell else was he going to go? The thought of leaving Sam had never crossed his mind as an option. Choosing to be somewhere Sam was not… It was like asking him to rip out his lungs and keep breathing.

"You ready to go?" he asked, sidestepping the thanks.

"Yeah. I just wanted to run across the street to get a drink. You want something?" Sam asked, heading for the door.

Dean's heart jerked once in reaction to having his brother out of his sight even for a minute, but he shook it off; it was just across the street. "Coke, I guess."

"Okay. Back in a minute."

"Hey."

Sam paused, one hand on the doorknob. He lifted an eyebrow in question.

He cleared his throat. "You okay?"

Shoulders straightening slightly, Sam tried to smile. "Yeah, I'm good. I'll be back." And he was gone.

The door clicked shut with ominous finality.

Dean shook his head, thinking maybe he should have asked Sam to pick him up something a little stronger than pop. Maybe a beer or something. They could stop on the way out of town. After making sure all his belongings were all situated safely in his bag, Dean turned glanced out the window to see Sam enter the gas station across the street. Shaking his head, but feeling relief, he turned away and headed toward the bathroom.

x.x.x.x.x

"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice sharp, "You know what could happen. If you die before we kill the bitch—"

"I won't. I'm not going anywhere until she's dead."

Ruby nodded slowly, clearly not totally convinced. "Okay. Just…watch it, okay? We don't have another shot at this."

Clutching the one coke and one beer tighter in his hand – despite what Dean had said, Sam knew his brother would be craving alcohol – he sighed softly. "Ruby, I don't… You know why the curse chose me."

Dark eyes met his, and in them he found a measure of sympathy. He didn't believe it. Ruby wasn't someone he trusted per say, but he did believe she would help him end Lilith, and right now that was more than enough for him.

"The curse targets the 'unfaithful,' Ruby." Sam ran a hand roughly through his hair, hating where his thoughts were. "I've lied to him, and I've betrayed him. What we're doing…"

"Sam, you could tell him what's going on. Maybe it'll make things easier," Ruby suggested slowly.

"Yeah, sure." He breathed a laugh. "That'd go over well. 'Dean, I know you hate my psychic whatever, but tough. I'm—'" Sam broke off and exhaled slowly. He wanted to tell his brother everything, he wanted them to be able to totally trust each other again. But he was changed, Dean was changed, and they could never be the same. And it wasn't safe for Dean to know.

He heard his dad's voice in the back of his mind, telling him to suck it up and keep going – if he wanted to stop Lilith and save Dean, just do what he damn well knew he had to do. He unconsciously straightened his posture.

"No, he won't understand this." _And he won't forgive me for going back to this._

"Then we keep going."

He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we do. But we need to pick up the pace. If I'm going to die, it has to be after all this is over."

Ruby raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You want to do more?" When Sam said nothing, she merely nodded. "Fine. I'll meet up with you soon." Turning, she strolled back to her car, shoulders tense.

Sam ran a hand through his hair again and glanced around the corner of the gas station back toward the motel. Dean was out by his car, wiping away some smudge that was more than likely all in his head. His brother's love for that car was something Sam had never truly understood, but if it made Dean happy, he was all for it. He watched as Dean stood back to admire his baby, looking proud. They had all made it through so much, some of them to Hell and back.

Putting his back to Dean, Sam made sure Ruby was completely out of sight before he started back across the street to the motel. He would stop Lilith and whatever she planned on unleashing, and he would keep Dean safe from all of it. His brother wasn't going back to Hell, not while he was around. And if it was the last thing he did, he would make sure Dean was safe from Lilith and her army of demons. That was something he would die for.

As he walked, Sam's mind reverted to his plans for Lilith's death, to what he was doing with Ruby. He was consorting with a demon against a demon and using demon-given powers to do it all. His life was screwed to hell, but that didn't mean it wasn't what he should be doing. None of it was going to stop if he didn't stop it – there was no one else.

Dean's head jerked up as he caught sight of Sam. He raised a hand in greeting, a gesture which Sam returned.

Determination broke over Sam like a whitecap; this was something he had to do, and it was something Dean couldn't save him from. And this time, Sam couldn't let him try. No one was dying in his place, least of all his brother. He knew what he was doing, and he knew what it would cost; this time, he would be the one to pay the price.

But the thing he hated most about what he was doing? How it hurt Dean. But he needed to do it, all of it; if he didn't use the curse Azazel gave him, if he didn't keep Dean at a distance, everything would go to hell. Even as it threatened to break him in two, Sam hoped the wedge between his brother and him would save Dean.

Sam wanted him to have a life when it was all over, maybe be a mechanic, get married and have kids, something; Dean would make an amazing dad, and he deserved to have that if he wanted it. And he knew that if Dean was going to live past all the crap that was going to happen, he had to be able to let go of his brother when Sam was gone.

He could hear Dean's voice in his head, shouting at him that what he was doing would lead him straight down the path to Hell, and that there would be no miraculous return.

Sam already had an answer for that.

"I know."

End

* * *

And that's it. Like it? Dislike it? Neutral? Let me know. Even one word works fine. I mean, "atrocious" or "periphrastic" lets me know exactly what you think. Even if this has been posted for a while, I'd still love to hear what you thought!

I was going to revise this once more, but sometimes I just loathe editing. This was one of those times.

Not so sure I like posting multi-chapter stories... they take too long to edit. But this was fun to write, especially over that long hiatus. Oy. Especially the first chapter - that's my favorite.

A big thank you to everyone who read this story, and an even bigger thank you to everyone who reviewed.

It's been fun!


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